The War Chronicles: Revolution
by Brihna
Summary: Mitchell and friends have relocated to Barry Island in the hopes of getting their lives back together, but with Wyndam on the loose and still no word from the Council, it isn't going to be easy. Secrets and lies breed distrust, and friendships are betrayed. Will they stand together in the war to come, or remain divided and fall? Part 3 of 3 in The War Chronicles series. AU.
1. Prologue: Sign of the Times

**_Edit: 8/25/14: If you are rereading this, I must apologize as I am going to confuse you! Since I first came up with this character, I've never really been happy with my choice of a name so I finally decided to change it. Rory is now Rory. Sorry to make such a drastic change so late in the game, but having the names Rory and Annie side by side was driving me nuts! And I like Rory much better. :)_**

**Track 1: Sign of the Times by Three Days Grace**

* * *

_Totterdown, Bristol Summer 2008_

It was mid-afternoon when the car pulled up outside the corner house, the sky nearly cloudless in contrast to the perpetually overcast weather they'd been having for the past couple of weeks. There were few other vehicles dotted along the street; most of their new neighbors likely away at work this time of day. As the car came to a stop, Mitchell leaned over in his seat, lowering his sunglasses as he took in the sight of the structure through the passenger side window.

"It's very… pink," he observed, pushing his sunglasses back up on the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand and tugging his hat down a little further over his eyes. It was a bit too sunny out for his liking. George marveled at how he could stand those gloves in the current heat.

"Well, it's within walking distance from the hospital and it was in our price range," he answered. "Not to mention it was the only place in town that was readily available."

Mitchell shrugged. "Well, I suppose it'll be fine for now. Come on," he said, opening the door. "Help me unload."

It was a good thing too that the house had come mostly furnished because neither of them had much to move in with. All of their possessions fit in the backseat and trunk of the car, packed in black garbage bags and a few boxes.

As Mitchell waited for George to get the trunk open, a flicker of movement attracted his attention to the upstairs window; a blur of brown and grey. He blinked his eyes and looked again, but there was nothing there. Certain he must be imagining things; he put it out of his mind.

George finally got the trunk open and started unloading bags. Mitchell paid these no mind, instead grabbing the old tube television set out of the back and hoisting it onto his shoulder before heading for the front door. Once inside, he immediately set to work trying to determine the best place for it.

George walked in loaded down with bags just as he had started rearranging the furniture in the living room. He set the bags down in the entryway and stared at him incredulously.

"Are you going to help bring the rest of the stuff in or are you too busy redecorating?"

"In a minute," Mitchell answered, shifting the couch another two inches to the left.

"Priorities," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head and heading back out the door.

Several minutes later, George had brought the rest of their stuff in himself and Mitchell was still fussing with the television set.

"You can take your stuff up to your room yourself," said George, piling bags at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm your housemate, not the valet."

"Uh huh," answered Mitchell distractedly.

George heaved an exasperated sigh and went into the kitchen to start putting dishes away.

Once he was finally satisfied with his work, Mitchell rose to his feet and crossed to the pile of bags at the bottom of the stairs. He was just reaching for them when there was a sudden crash from somewhere overhead.

"Mitchell," called George from the kitchen, sounding annoyed. "What are you doing up…there-?" He trailed off as he emerged from the kitchen to find his housemate standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up towards the top floor suspiciously. He swallowed hard. "What was that?"

"I think there's someone up there," said Mitchell, narrowing his eyes at the stairwell. "Wait here, I'm going to go check it out."

"_What?_" answered George. "Are you mad? We should call the police!"

"The police?" said Mitchell incredulously. "Honestly, George, I'm a hundred and fourteen year old _vampire_, for Christ's sake! If someone's broken into the house, he's about to get a lot more than he bargained for-"

He started to make his way up the stairs, but George blocked his path.

"What if it isn't human," he argued. "What if it's, you know… one of us? Like, a _bigger_ one of us?"

As if on cue, there was another loud crash that sounded directly over their heads.

"I'll handle it," said Mitchell, though perhaps with a little less conviction than before.

"Hang on," George replied; reaching into the umbrella stand in the entryway where a cricket bat had inexplicably been stored. He brandished his newfound weapon in front of him, pointing towards the stairs. "I'll cover you."

Mitchell fought the intense urge to roll his eyes and began to ascend the stairs.

He crept silently down the hallway; though it was broad daylight he still possessed the ability to keep his steps lighter than most. He only wished the same could be said of George. His cricket bat wielding companion seemed determined to find every creaky floorboard in the house; which he exacerbated by persisting to apologize in a loud whisper every time he made a noise. They were nearly to the end of the hall when Mitchell rounded on him.

_"George, will you_ _shut up?"_ he whispered through clenched teeth.

_"I'm sorry! I'm not doing it on purpose,"_ he whispered back.

_"Then just stop talking! Honestly, you're loud enough to wake the _dead-_"_

Another loud crash sounded, this time coming from the room just ahead of them. Mitchell narrowed his eyes at the closed door and turned back to George, pressing a finger to his lips.

He copied the gesture almost comically and tightened his grip on the cricket bat. Pointing it towards the door, he mouthed the words, "You go first."

Mitchell rolled his eyes.

He approached the door cautiously, George just behind him, and reached for the handle. On a silent count of three, he flung the door open and the two burst inside.

Mitchell stopped dead at the sight before them, nearly causing George to crash into him from behind; the cricket bat raised above his head. In the center of the room sat a young women, curled up in an oversized armchair and examining her nails in a bored fashion as if she hadn't noticed the pair come crashing into the room.

"Who the hell are you?" George demanded, the cricket bat still held firmly in his hands.

She glanced around the room, dark curls bouncing as she turned her head, seemingly trying to determine who he was speaking to. Finally a pair of wide brown eyes came to rest on the two of them standing in the doorway.

"Can you see me?" she asked, glancing from one to the other.

"What?" said George. "Yes, of course we can see you; we're not blind- and that's not the point! What are you doing in our house?"

"You can see me!" she went on excitedly, as if he hadn't spoken. She propped herself up on the chair and waved her arms over her head. "Can you see me doing that?"

George eyed her warily, obviously concerned for her mental health, but she didn't seem to notice. "Oh, this is incredible!" she said, clasping her hands excitedly.

Mitchell had remained stock still during the exchange, glancing from one to the other as the reality of the situation dawned on him. He turned to his companion. "George-"

"What's _incredible_ is the fact that you're still here," said George as though he hadn't heard, attempting to maintain an air of control.

"George-"

"Mitchell, call the police!"

"George, _shut up_," he hissed, clearly exasperated. "She's a ghost."

She folded her arms across her chest defensively. "You're point being?"

Mitchell studied her for a moment, wondering how this beautiful young woman had come to haunt this little corner house in the middle of Bristol. She had to have been in her early twenties at most. Her eyes were bright and full of life, in spite of being dead of course, and there was a softness to her features; though her gaze on him was sharp. He had not encountered many ghosts in his long years on the earth, but he knew enough about how they came to be; usually as a result of a violent death or due to some unfinished business they needed to carry out before they could move on. Eventually he decided that if he and George were going to be sharing the space with her, then they would simply have to find out more about her; and he couldn't help being curious.

"What's your name?" he asked, thinking it best to start with the basics.

"Anna Clare Sawyer," she answered, still eyeing him with uncertainty. "My friends call me 'Annie.' At least they did," she corrected, taking a sudden interest in a loose thread at the hem of her blouse.

"I'm Mitchell, and this is George," he replied, taking the cricket bat from his companion who had still been holding it defensively and giving him a reproving look. "We're not exactly what you'd call 'human' either."

"What are you talking about?" asked Annie, confused.

"Well, you're not the only element of the supernatural that exists in the world," answered Mitchell, trying to ease her into it. "You see, I'm a vampire; I have been for almost a hundred years. George here is a werewolf, but he's still a bit new to it. That's why we can see you."

"Oh, that's just great, Mitchell," interjected George. "Just go on and tell her everything. Tell the whole bloody neighborhood while you're at it!"

"Who's she going to tell, George? She's just as much at risk from the outside world as we are if the right people found out. Besides, this is her house, so we're going to have to-"

"_Her_ house?" he cut in. "We've paid a deposit!"

"That's how it works, George-" Mitchell lowered his voice, pulling him to the side. "A ghost is usually bound to a place they had strong ties to," he explained. "The place they lived or the place where they died. So, whether you like it or not, we're in this together now."

When he turned around, Annie had returned to her armchair and was sitting with her arms wrapped around herself, staring forlornly into nothing.

"I don't understand," she said softly. "I thought I was finally coming to terms with my… _condition_, and now you're telling me that there are vampires and werewolves out there?"

"Annie-" Mitchell crossed the room and knelt beside her chair. "Look, I know this is difficult for you, but George and I both know what it's like to go through it alone. George didn't have anyone before I met him, and before that I had been travelling on my own for a long time. It doesn't have to be like that for you. Don't you see?"

He reached out and took her hand between both of his, and she gasped at the touch, staring at him with wide eyes. It was the first time she had made physical contact with anyone since she died. She hadn't even thought it was still possible.

Encouraged that she didn't pull away, Mitchell smiled up at her, squeezing her hand gently. "We can help you, Annie; maybe even figure out what's keeping you here. Either way, you don't have to be alone anymore. There are three of us now; we can make it together."

Annie sniffed, wiping at her eyes with her free hand, not wanting to let go. "You really think so?" she said.

"Of course," answered Mitchell. "No one should have to be alone; not like this. I'm not saying it'll be perfect, but we can try." He looked back over his shoulder at George still hovering in the doorway. "What do you say, George?"

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, feeling a little uncertain. He didn't want to admit it, but seeing the lost look in Annie's eyes did a great deal to remind him of those long months of solitude before a chance meeting with an unlikely friend had changed his life forever. He never spoke about it, but he knew that he owed Mitchell his life that night; and no matter how much the two bickered, he was grateful beyond words for his constant friendship. Glancing between him and Annie now, he knew he could never deny that to anyone else. As hard as it was, Mitchell was right; they needed to stick together.

"Well," said George, finally breaking his silence. "I suppose that sounds alright."

* * *

Mitchell stands on the pavement with his hands stuffed in his pockets, gazing up at the brick building before him; the sign reading _Honolulu Heights_ swinging over the garden. His gaze flits to an upstairs window where he's certain he saw the rustling of a curtain, and he stares at it for a long time; refusing to admit to himself that there was nothing there.

Overhead the sky is gloomy and the clouds threaten rain; but he finds the contrast fitting from the last time he moved to a new place. But then the circumstances had been much different.

The house that the five of them, that is, the pair of vampires and trio of werewolves, have just rented was formerly a bed and breakfast. It was a practical choice, given that there will be plenty of much needed space for the group that has been living in such close quarters for the past few weeks; though the idea of it has taken Mitchell's mind elsewhere.

_"You know I think I would have quite liked having my own bed and breakfast," said Annie._

_"I could see you running a b and b," Rory commented with a grin._

_She laughed. "Yeah. If anyone wanted to stay at a b and b run by _Casper_."_

_He shrugged. "Well, who says you had to cater to humans?"_

_"Now, there's an idea," said George. "A b and b for supernaturals. Can you imagine?"_

_Annie scoffed. "Oh, come off it. How would that even work?"_

_"Hey, I think it's a great idea," said Mitchell. "We all get along just fine, so it isn't impossible. You'd have to find a bigger place, and probably set a few house rules, of course, but I bet it could work. You know, we're lucky. Most people like us don't have any place to go; anywhere that they don't have to hide or that they can belong. It'd be like a sanctuary."_

_"So, what would you call it?" asked Rory, grinning at them over his shoulder._

_Mitchell shrugged. "'Annie's Place,'" he responded, as if this was the most obvious answer in the world._

"Mitchell?"

The voice startles him out of his reverie and he turns to find a familiar pair of blue eyes studying him with concern.

"Are you alright?" asks Lucian for what must be the thousandth time in the past few weeks. Mitchell is beginning to think he simply does this out of habit anymore; he already knows what the response is going to be.

"Grand," he says, right on cue; with the same fake smile plastered on his face that he has adopted to appease his friends.

Lucian doesn't buy it, of course, but he has promised not to pry; and Mitchell feels the familiar pang of guilt as the older man simply nods in response.

"Well, come on then," he says. "Let's get the rest of the stuff inside before we get dumped on."

Mitchell nods absently and follows him to the car where George and Rory are gathering boxes and hauling them inside. He stacks a couple of boxes and follows suit, allowing himself to be distracted by the mundane task. They barely manage to finish unloading before the sky opens up and the rain starts coming down in buckets.

Once everything is inside, the group set about moving their personal belongings to each of their respective bedrooms, all of which are on the second floor. Rory has taken up residence in the last room towards the back of the house, across from the bathroom. Beside him and just at the top of the stairs is Lucian's room. This is the smallest bedroom in the house, but it suits him just fine. He figures he sleeps less than anyone and will likely be using it as a place to store his belongings more than anything else. The next room belongs to George and Nina. This room is probably the largest, so it is the best suited for the couple and their combined belongings. In the front corner of the house, sharing a wall with George and Nina is Mitchell's room. From his window, he has a clear view of the front door and the street below, and it puts him at ease somehow to be able to so easily monitor anyone who might approach the house. But that isn't entirely why he selected this particular room.

Next door stands an unoccupied bedroom with a single over-sized chair in the center of the floor facing the window. In Mitchell's mind at least, this is Annie's room. In it he places all the things that remind him of her, including a single cracked tea cup on the mantle; one of the only items he managed to recover from the wreckage of the house.

While the others are busy unpacking, he slips inside and takes a seat on the floor, leaning his back against the chair as he often did on the occasions when Annie was feeling down and would shut herself up in her room. Sometimes they had talked, other times they would just sit in silence, but she had always seemed to appreciate his presence either way. When he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine her there now; and it's like they never left.

* * *

George watches Nina out of the corner of his eye as she sorts through their clothes, putting things on hangers and arranging them in the closet; all the while humming a little tune to herself. She seems content now that they're finally settling in, and he feels a tremendous amount of relief at that. Her current mood is certainly an improvement from a couple of days ago. When they first came to see the house, she had been less than enthusiastic about the whole thing. After the real estate agent had given them their initial tour, Nina had been quick to pull him aside.

"So, it's the five of you then?" the agent asked.

"Six, actually," Mitchell corrected. "A friend will be joining us."

"Well, that's not... definite," said George.

"No, she should be here pretty soon," Mitchell affirmed. "I can't imagine what's taking so long."

The woman shrugged. "Do what you like, as long as the rent gets paid," she said.

They were interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing and the woman dug through her purse to retrieve the device.

"Yeah?" she answered. "Yeah, they're looking at it now." She excused herself with a wave of her hand and made her way to the front door. "I don't know, English or something," she told the person on the other line as she stepped outside.

"George, why don't we go and take a look at the, um, the basement gym we saw in the advert?" said Nina, giving him a pointed look.

George looked perplexed, and she took him by the hand with an exasperated sigh, half dragging him toward the basement stairs.

They came to a small square room with a single piece of exercise equipment in the center and Nina closed the door behind them, rounding on her boyfriend.

"George, what are we doing here?" she said.

"We're… looking at a house?" he answered uncertainly.

"I _know_ we're looking at a house, but why are we looking at a house with _them_?"

"I thought you liked Rory," he answered, sounding put out. "And anyway, he can help us. He _has_ been helping us."

"Rory isn't the problem. I'm talking about Louis and Lestat upstairs," she responded, pointing over their heads.

"Oh, that's very nice," said George sarcastically. "And what have you got against Mitchell and Lucian all of a sudden?" he demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

Nina laughed darkly. "Would you prefer that list chronologically or alphabetically?"

"Mitchell has only ever tried to look out for me, and for you. And Lucian's done a lot for us too, you know," he countered. "None of us were prepared for what happened. They're the reason we've been able to get back on our feet so quickly-"

"_They're_ the reason we got into this mess in the first place!" she shot back. "None of this would have happened if Mitchell hadn't stirred up trouble with the head vampire."

"Herrick tried to _kill him_," he said angrily. "You saw him at the hospital, you know what happened. Herrick would've Turned half the city if we hadn't stopped him."

"Oh, and Mitchell wasn't allowing the others to make more vampires after he took over?" she accused.

George swallowed hard, suddenly regretting just how much he had shared with Nina on the subject. "That was different," he answered weakly.

"Oh, I'm sure," she said sarcastically. "And what about the way he's been acting lately?"

"Nina, we've just lost _Annie_. It's going to take some time to-"

"So that's why he's always glued to the television watching news coverage on recent murders when he thinks no one's around? Why he listens to every report about the Box Tunnel Massacre almost obsessively?"

"Maybe he's investigating," answered George, "trying to determine if there were vampires involved. That's what Lucian's always been about, as far as I've gathered; policing the vampire community."

"Then, why not tell us as much?" said Nina. "Why try and hide it? What doesn't he want us to know?"

He stared at her. "What are you saying? That you think he was _involved_ somehow? Nina, this is Mitchell we're talking about. He's my _best friend_."

"Look, George," she said slowly. "Whatever your past history with Mitchell, I'm telling you something's off. He's hiding something. Now, as far as Lucian is concerned, we barely know him, but he is extremely close with Mitchell. I've got a pretty good feeling that whatever this is, he knows about it, and he is much more concerned with protecting Mitchell than with the impact this it's going to have on the rest of us."

George heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses while he gathered his thoughts. "Nina," he began. "I understand that this has been difficult for you. This world, this life, is a lot to adjust to. It isn't easy knowing that there are monsters out there; and that is exactly why I think we should all stay together. At least for now. I feel much safer knowing that we're not alone in all this. Can you understand that?"

She contemplated this for a moment, weighing her options, before finally releasing a defeated sigh. "Alright," she said. "We'll try it your way."

"Thank you," he answered, looking relieved.

"But if this goes south, we're getting out of here, do you understand?" she warned. "We'll move to Scotland, America if we have to, but I'm not getting dragged into any more of their shit. Not again. You and I have lost too much."

"Nina," said George, placing his hands on her shoulders. "We're not going to have to move to Scotland, or America; or anywhere else for that matter. We're going to stay right here. It'll be fine, I promise."

"It better be," she muttered under her breath.

"It will," he assured her. "Just trust me, okay?"

Nina sighed. "I do trust you," she answered, moving forward into his outstretched arms and wrapping her arms around his waist. _It's the others I'm not so sure about,_ she thought, but she decided to keep it to herself.

"Then stop worrying," he said, releasing her and turning towards the door. "Come on. Let's head back upstairs."

"And just what do you think you're staring at?" asks Nina, snapping George out of his reverie.

"Only the most beautiful woman in the universe," he replies with a goofy grin.

She rolls her eyes, but returns the smile. "That is _so_ cheesy," she answers, wrinkling her nose at him.

"I know. That's why you love me," he says, leaning in and giving her a quick peck on the lips.

"Quit flirting and get back to work!" she chides, chucking a rolled up pair of socks at his head which he dodges easily.

"Alright, alright," he answers, setting about hanging the rest of the clothes.

Nina bends down over the box where she had retrieved the pair of socks, suddenly trying to remember why on earth she had packed them that way. She picks it up and sets it on the bed to get a better look; it's too heavy to contain only socks. Peering inside, she catches a glimpse of porcelain and suddenly remembers.

"Nina?" asks George, concerned over the way she stands frozen, staring down at the box with a hand over her mouth. "Nina, what is it?"

She reaches inside and gently lifts out the object in question; a teapot, hand painted with a design of white and purple flowers. "It was for Annie," she explains. "She was always complaining about how plain and boring that old teapot in the kitchen was. I bought this for her just before- As a way to say 'thank you' for everything she did for me; for being a friend from the beginning. I never got to give it to her. I'd forgotten about it until now." She crosses the room and sets it on top of the bureau gently, taking a step back and wiping at her eyes.

George moves to stand behind her, slipping his arms around her waist.

"We've got to find a way to get her back, George," says Nina after a pause, turning around to face him. "There has to be something we can do."

"We will," answers George, holding her tightly. "We'll think of something." Though he has no idea what.

* * *

Mitchell rises late the next morning, having not managed to get to sleep until the predawn hours- and even then his dreams had been wrought with nightmares. He pads barefoot down the stairs in track pants and a loose fitting t-shirt, only interested in the coffee he can smell brewing in the kitchen. He wanders in with a yawn to find Lucian and Rory seated at the kitchen table. George is standing at the counter, pouring himself some coffee. On Mitchell's approach, he wordlessly hands him a mug.

"Cheers," says Mitchell, taking the coffee pot once George has finished. "Nina gone to work already?"

"Yeah," he answers. "Early shift. I'll be heading in a little later."

George and Nina had an easy enough time finding work at the local hospital when they relocated to Barry Island, and Mitchell is happy for them. It's good that the two have been able to get on with their normal lives so quickly. At least, as normal as two werewolves could hope for. For Mitchell, he has decided to hold off. Between him and Lucian, there is still the problem of Wyndam, though he has been mysteriously absent for the past few weeks. That, and they still have heard nothing from the Council. He never says anything, but Mitchell can sense how anxious Lucian is getting with each passing day. He knows he's going to want to make a move soon. Lucian has never been one to remain idle for very long.

"We're going to have to find a place to transform tonight," says George with a sigh, taking a seat beside Rory at the table. "But I don't even know where to start-"

"Already taken care of," says Rory, setting down his mug. "Lucian and I took the liberty of scouting a few areas early this morning. I think we found a pretty good spot; wooded area, seems far enough removed from any of the usual campgrounds."

"Oh, thank God," answers George, looking tremendously relieved. "I'd been thinking that we might be able to use the room downstairs if it came down to it, but it would've been a tight fit for the three of us."

"It's always better to be out in the open if you can help it," says Rory. "It can actually be harder to maintain control if the Wolf feels too confined."

Mitchell takes the seat to Lucian's right, just across from George, and takes a long drink from his mug; thankful to finally get some caffeine in his system. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the older man watching him and he sets it back down, offering a weak smile by way of greeting. Lucian appears about to say something, but seems to think better of it; instead giving a short nod in return before shifting his attention back to the mug in his hands.

"I guess all we have to do now is figure out when Nina and I need to meet you," says George. "How far is this place from-"

He is cut off by the sound of a ringing phone, and reaches into his pocket to retrieve the offending device. He glances at the display with a frown. "It's Nina," he says, rising from his seat. He moves into the doorway, meaning to take the call in the other room, and lifts the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

_"George- is Mitchell there?"_

George stops short, turning back to face the others who look up at him curiously, his gaze coming to rest on Mitchell.

"Yeah, he is. Why?"

_"Put him on the line. I think I may have found a way to get Annie back."_

* * *

**_And so we begin again…_**

**_Hello, my lovely readers! And welcome to the final installment of The War Chronicles series! I'm sorry it took so long to get this up and running. I'm starting to think I just suck at prologues and I still don't think I'm 100% happy with how this one turned out, but I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to deliver as much criticism as you like. I'm really trying to improve my writing…_**

**_If you haven't already, I hope you'll check out the Untold leg of The War Chronicles. It's a series of one-shots and drabbles set within this universe that I plan to keep going indefinitely. If you're interested, it may offer you a bit more insight into what I've written in the past as well as what's to come._**

**_I wrote an obscenely long A/N at the end of the last chapter to Untold, so I'll keep this one short._**

**_Unfortunately, I'm down to my last day of vacation and will be returning to work on Thursday. I'm hoping things have calmed down with how busy it's been by the time I get back, but please bear with me if I take a little longer between updates. If there's one thing I've learned from this time off I've been able to take; it's that I'd give anything to be able to write full time. I think I've finally found my calling and have already begun some of the pre-planning and character development for my first original novel, which will feature our friend Lucian as the main character. If you'd like to know more about that, take a look at the last A/N on Untold. ;)_**

**_So thank you for your patience! I hope you all haven't forgotten about me for how long it's been…_**

**_Please review! Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. :)_**


	2. Dance with the Devil

**_I must apologize if you've been with this series for a while as I am going to confuse you… Since I first came up with one of my characters, I've never really been happy with my choice of a name so I finally decided to change it. Andy is now Rory. Sorry to make such a drastic change so late in the game, but having the names Andy and Annie side by side was driving me nuts! And I like Rory much better. :)_**

**_I also changed the names of two of the Council members, but we won't be seeing them until later. But if you're curious, you can take a look back at Cold War, I have made all the changes there._**

**_(I really hope this is free of any typos or stupid grammatical errors. I'm so sick of looking at this that I kind of flew through the editing process…)_**

**_And so without further ado after this INSANELY LONG HIATUS… here is the second chapter of Revolution…_**

**Track 2: Dance with the Devil by Breaking Benjamin**

* * *

"You're not seriously considering this?"

George stands in his scrubs in the middle of the living room, arms folded tightly across his chest as he stares down Mitchell seated on the couch in front of him, doing up the laces on his boots. Rory has positioned himself on the arm of the chair between them, ready to intervene if necessary. Ever since Nina's plan was divulged, the bespectacled werewolf has become increasingly high strung with each passing minute; especially after Mitchell announced his intention of going along with her plan. Rory keeps a close eye on George from his present perch, concerned over what lengths he may go to in order to keep the vampire from leaving the house.

"Not 'considering,' George," Mitchell responds as he finishes with his boots and rises to his feet. "I'm doing this."

"But why tonight?" he frets. "It's the full moon, we've just moved into a new house; we've got enough going on without you crossing over into the _afterlife_."

"I told you what Nina said," he answers. "We may not get another shot at this."

"It's a suicide mission," George shoots back. "Say it works, say you can even get to Annie; how do you plan on getting back?"

"I'll figure something out," he answers, reaching for his jacket draped over the arm of the couch.

_"'Figure something out?'"_ George looks aghast. "Mitchell, you're talking about crossing over to the _other side_\- If it was that easy to get back, don't you think Annie would've done it by now?"

Mitchell says nothing as he shrugs on his jacket.

"Look, I want her back too," George continues. "We all do. But we can't risk losing you as well!" He turns to the figure silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, desperately seeking an ally. "Lucian- _tell him_."

The older man leans heavily against the door frame, arms folded tightly across his chest. Throughout the exchange he has stood in stony silence, his expression unreadable. Upon hearing his name he lifts his head, his gaze passing over Mitchell entirely and coming to rest on George.

"What would you like me to say?" he answers with a shrug. "It sounds to me like he's made up his mind."

"Talk some sense into him!" cries George. "Tell him he can't go!"

Lucian shakes his head. "He's not a child, George," he answers almost bitterly. "He's perfectly capable of making his own decisions. He certainly doesn't need any input from me." And before anyone can offer a response, he turns his back and disappears into the kitchen, letting the door fall closed behind him.

"So that's it then," says George to no one in particular. "He's just going to let him go."

Mitchell tears his gaze from the kitchen door, his dark eyes sad as they come to rest on his friend.

"Of all people, I thought at least _Lucian_ might be able to talk some sense into you," George continues, quickly losing the battle to keep his voice steady.

"It's Mitchell's decision, George," says Rory. "We need to respect that."

"If we had another option, I'd be open to suggestions," says Mitchell. "But there isn't another way. I have to do this. I need you to understand that."

George slumps onto the couch, dropping his head in his hands with a heavy sigh. "Alright," he says, defeated. "But I'm going with you. At least to the hospital."

Mitchell offers a weak smile. "Thank you, George."

"You two had better get going then," says Rory. "There's no telling how much time you've got."

Mitchell nods distractedly. "George, you wait in the car. I'll be out in a minute."

"Alright," he answers, but the reply falls on deaf ears; Mitchell is already heading for the kitchen.

He turns the handle slowly and steps inside, letting the door fall closed behind him with a soft 'click.'

Lucian stands with his back to him, shoulders slightly hunched as he braces his arms against the back of a chair in the center of the room. Mitchell steps forward tentatively, but the older man doesn't move; he doesn't even raise his head.

"Annie would never have ended up in that place if it wasn't for me," says Mitchell. "This is the only chance I have to get her back; I have to try."

Lucian is silent.

"I'm responsible for her; I know you must understand that," he presses. "You would do the same for me."

Again, he is silent.

Mitchell feels his throat begin to tighten and he swallows hard. "Please say something," he pleads softly.

Still, he is silent; unmoving as though he was carved of stone.

He releases a shaky breath. "I have to go," he says, defeated. "There isn't much time. But I want you to know, I am grateful for everything you've done; for me and for my friends. Things would've turned out a lot worse if I hadn't met you. I'll never be able to repay you for that. Just- don't be angry with me, okay? This isn't how I wanted to say goodbye."

Mitchell stands there a moment longer, waiting for any kind of acknowledgement. When it becomes clear that the older man is not going to respond, he turns and walks away.

The door falls shut behind him with a resounding 'click' and Lucian lowers himself into a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly feeling the full weight of his nine hundred years. How many in that length of time had he loved and lost? It is not a question he is seeking the answer to. But within moments, the silence in the room and the weight of that question become too much to bear. He releases a shuddering breath, hangs his head, and cries.

* * *

The minutes tick by painfully slowly as the two sit in silence on either side of the hospital bed. From the urgency with which Nina had requested his presence, Mitchell had not expected to wait this long. He had not prepared for this. Not only does it make the situation that much more awkward, but he now has ample time to dwell on what's to come; and his mind is running wild. As he sits in the uncomfortable chair, chewing his nails nervously, he is offered a distraction by way of George, who has started humming quietly to himself. No, not humming. It sounds more like _chanting_.

Mitchell grins in spite of himself. "What are you doing?" he asks conversationally, though he's pretty sure he knows the answer.

George ceases his tune and looks over at him sheepishly. "It's a prayer," he says.

Mitchell quirks an eyebrow at him. "Is he even Jewish?"

"It still counts," he insists, and the look he gives Mitchell is so severe that he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"I didn't think you still knew any," he says mildly, though he is secretly pleased to see George still displaying some interest in his faith.

"If you're going to make fun, you can wait in the hall," he answers accusingly.

Mitchell holds up his hands in a placating gesture and closes his mouth.

Satisfied, George bows his head and resumes his chanting. After a moment he stops, and Mitchell shoots him an inquisitive look. "I don't remember the rest of it," he mutters under his breath.

Before Mitchell can offer a response, a noise like an alarm pierces the room- the flat line of a heart rate monitor. Slowly, he rises to his feet, George mirroring his movements as the two stop and stare at the offending instrument. _Now what?_

"Is that me?"

The two turn to see a man standing behind them, staring at the figure on the bed in disbelief.

He makes a face. "I look awful."

"Sean is it?" says Mitchell, taking a tentative step forward.

The man nods.

"Sean, I'm really sorry to tell you this… but you've just died," he says. "But it's okay," he amends at a sharp look from George. "We're going on a journey."

The man studies him apprehensively. "So then are you… Death?"

Mitchell looks stunned. "No," he says a little indignantly. "No, I'm not _Death_-"

"Sean," George interjects before the conversation goes south. "This is Mitchell. He's going to make sure you get there safe."

There is a flash of light as the door appears behind him and the man turns. "What is that?"

"That's for you," says George. "That's what's next."

Mitchell approaches the door, stopping just to one side. He turns to face them with his hands folded in front of him. "When you're ready, Sean."

He moves toward the door, eyeing it warily, and stands beside Mitchell. "So this is it then," he says. "Is it… something good?"

"Yeah, Sean," says Mitchell. "You did good. You can rest now."

Satisfied, the man nods. He takes one last look behind him and reaches for the knob. As a flood of white light pours from the open door, he latches onto Mitchell's hand before stepping through.

Halfway through the door, Mitchell pauses, turning to look back at George who has turned his back on the scene.

"George," he begins. "If I this doesn't work-"

He waves a hand behind him, cutting him off. "Don't-" he says, "just come back."

* * *

There is a blinding flash of light as Mitchell steps through the door, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes. When it finally dims, he blinks a few times, trying to bring his surroundings into focus. He finds himself standing in an empty room, painted white from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. He takes a few tentative steps forward, realizing belatedly that his companion has vanished, and discovers that the room contains no doors or windows. He turns around to check the way he came only to find that door has vanished as well. Just as he begins to feel a rising sense of panic, he hears the sound of a door click behind him. He turns back to discover that a new door has suddenly appeared there- and he is no longer alone in the room.

A young woman stands before him; dressed in a floral sundress and light blue cardigan, medium length brown hair hanging loose around her shoulders. The door falls shut behind her with a 'click' as she steps further into the room, smiling at him brightly. Something about her face is familiar, but he can't seem to place it.

"Hello," she greets cheerily, stopping in the center of the room with her hands folded in front of her. "You must be Mitchell."

"How do you know my name?" he asks.

"Oh, I know lots of things about you," she says. "I know that Mitchell is actually your surname but you refuse to go by anything else." She grins. "I know that you're a vampire."

"So you're my guide then," he says.

Her grin widens. "That's right," she says. "I'm Lia." She extends a hand which Mitchell doesn't take. "Oh, come on, I don't bite," she says.

"What happened to the other guy?" he asks evasively, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Oh, don't you worry about him," she answers with a dismissive wave of the hand. "He'll have loads of his own stuff to do."

He nods uncertainly. "So what is this place?"

"This is the Waiting Room," she answers.

"Does everyone come through here?" he asks. "I'm looking for someone; a friend of mine... Annie."

Lia appears entirely uninterested as she strolls lazily about the room, working her way back towards the door. "Lots of people come through here," she says to the ceiling.

"Can you help me find her?" asks Mitchell, following her towards the door.

Lia smiles at him and something seems to flash behind her eyes. "That," she says, reaching for the handle, "is entirely up to you," and she opens the door.

* * *

Rory trudges through the woods with his rucksack on his shoulder, George and Nina close behind. It's getting close to sunset and he can feel his senses begin to shift as the Change draws closer. This is one of the few things he enjoys about being a werewolf; it's as if the world suddenly comes into focus. His vision is sharper, his hearing hyper sensitive, and he can identify smells faster than a bloodhound; sometimes from considerable distances. He has tried to tap into these abilities on occasion the way he can force a Change, but he has never been able to achieve the same effect as the rising of a full moon has on his senses.

"Are we there yet?" calls George from behind him.

Rory grins. "Come on, kids," he calls over his shoulder, "Don't make me turn this car around."

"We need to be sure we're far enough from any populated areas," says Nina seriously. "Quit moaning and keep walking."

"Since when are you the expert?" George responds irritably.

"Since _I_ actually pay attention to the lessons instead of-"

"Guys, come on," Rory interjects before things get heated. "It's been a rough day for all of us; there's no sense taking it out on each other." He takes a few more steps before coming to a stop, slipping the pack off his shoulder and turning to face them. "Besides, we're here."

George approaches a nearby tree and slumps onto the ground beside it, looking utterly miserable.

Rory exchanges a glance with Nina. "You two wait here," he says. "I'm going to find a place to stash our stuff." And he takes the bags and trudges into the line of trees ahead of them.

Once he's out of sight Nina shuffles over to George, lowering herself to the ground beside where he sits pulling up blades of grass. He doesn't lift his head.

"You're worried about Mitchell, aren't you?" she asks.

He sighs. "I'm just not particularly fond of the idea that I may very well have just lost my best friend," he answers.

"He'll come back," says Nina, surprised at her own level of confidence. "Annie too. You'll see. We just need to be patient."

"How can you be so sure?" asks George, his blue eyes sad.

"Because," she grins, "I'm your girlfriend. And that means I'm always right." And she leans forward and kisses him on the nose. "Besides," she continues. "In spite of my-" she clears her throat, "personal feelings towards Mitchell, I do know that he cares about Annie. He won't leave her in that place. Not for anything in the world."

The two sit in silence for a while, enjoying the calm before the storm so to speak, as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon.

After several minutes, Nina is beginning to wonder about Rory's whereabouts when she hears a rustling in the underbrush; the sound of heavy boots crunching through the fallen leaves. They lift their heads as Rory emerges from the line of trees ahead looking slightly winded. He's still carrying George and Nina's pack on his shoulder.

"We have a problem," he says to the question in their gazes.

"What is it?" asks Nina.

"We're not the only ones here," he answers gravely.

"What, you mean there are people here?" asks George, rising to his feet. "I thought you said this place was clear of any of the campgrounds-"

"Not humans," says Rory. "Werewolves. A pair of them from what I can tell. They must have moved into the area sometime after Lucian and I scouted it this morning."

"Well, that's alright, isn't it?" asks Nina. "I mean, the three of us do just fine in one place. There's plenty of room-"

"You don't understand," he responds, "that's different. The three of us know each other."

"What if we just talked to them?" she presses.

"Nina," he says, "I've been dealing with this for most of my life. I've been in this situation before. A person like you or me could be perfectly reasonable- or not. But a werewolf on the verge of a Change is completely unpredictable. This could very likely turn into a fight over territory and neither of you is prepared for that."

"So, what do we do?" asks George, feeling a rising sense of panic. "We haven't got much time; the moon will be rising any minute."

Rory slips the pack from his shoulder and presses it into George's arms. "Run," he says. "Take Nina and put as much distance between us as you can. Find a place you can confine yourselves if you have to. You won't hurt each other," he says in answer to the worried look George gives him.

"What about you?" demands Nina. "You can't face two of them on your own. If things get bad-"

"Don't worry about me," he answers. "I've survived worse."

The preliminary shock waves of the Change tear through them, leaving the three gasping for breath.

"Go," says Rory when he recovers, giving George a push. "Run and don't look back. In the morning, head for the house. I'll meet you there."

And with no other options, the two tear off into the woods behind them.

* * *

Mitchell blinks and he finds himself standing in a copse of trees in the dead of night, a light mist swirling over the underbrush. The air smells of gunpowder and smoke, and somewhere in the distance he can hear the distinct popping sound of the exchange of gunfire. He freezes on the spot as the years melt away and he remembers trudging through woods just like these with a rifle in his hands. He rounds on Lia.

"Where are we?" he demands, though as improbable as it seems he believes he knows the answer.

"You tell me," she responds. "This is your Purgatory."

He shakes his head. "It isn't possible-"

"Says the walking corpse," Lia mutters.

He releases a shaky breath, passing gloved hands over his face. "France," he says. "June 10th, 1917."

Approaching footsteps halt any further explanation and Mitchell freezes, eyes scanning the surrounding trees. Away to his right, he spots a lone figure treading carefully through the underbrush, holding a rifle out in front of him.

"Is that _you_?" asks Lia, moving closer to get a better look. "And in uniform," she purrs. "Must be my lucky day."

Mitchell moves through the trees as if in a trance, following the figure at a distance. Ahead of them he can hear voices. The soldier pauses.

"Turn back," Mitchell pleads in a whisper. "Trust your instincts- just turn around…"

"He can't hear you," says Lia. "Or rather, _you_ can't hear you. Funny thing isn't it? It's like a bloody Christmas Carol." She laughs. "I suppose that makes me the Ghost of Christmas Past-"

"_Shh_," he hisses, giving her a hard look.

The soldier moves forward, rifle at the ready and Mitchell follows, bracing himself for what he already knows he will find. They step through the clearing and the soldier freezes.

The stench of blood is heavy in the air as several bodies lay sprawled in the grass, shadowed figures hovering over their corpses. They are dressed in British officers' uniforms; the corpses recognizable as enlisted men from the soldier's regiment.

The blond haired man closest to him turns, greeting him with a predatory grin. "Well, well," he says. "It seems we have one more joining our little dinner party." The men behind him laugh.

"Stay where you are," Mitchell hears his own voice say. The hands holding the rifle are shaking.

The man takes a bold step forward, analyzing the young soldier with cold eyes that to Mitchell are all too familiar. Though it's been months since he last saw his Sire in the flesh, he has often haunted his dreams. Seeing him so tangible once more is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

"Or what?" says Herrick. "You'll shoot me?"

There is a distinct 'click click' as the soldier cocks the rifle, steadying his aim.

Herrick grins. "I wouldn't bother with that, my lad," he says. "You see, you can't kill what's already dead." He blinks and his eyes turn pitch black, sharp fangs revealed as his grin widens.

The soldier steps back with a gasp, but there is nowhere to run. Quicker than the eye could follow, two of Herrick's men have moved in behind him, blocking his escape. They grab him by the arms and the rifle falls to the ground.

"Wait," says the soldier as Herrick moves closer.

"Oh, come now," says Herrick with annoyance. "Don't beg for your life. It is so tiresome."

He shakes his head. "No. I will give it to you willingly; just spare the rest of my men. No one else has to die. You can have me, just let them go."

Herrick studies him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Mitchell," is the answer. "John Mitchell."

"That's rather noble of you, Mitchell," says Herrick. "Offering yourself up for the sake of others. But you see, we're going to kill you anyway. So the question is; what do I have to gain by you giving up your life?"

"Please," he begs. "Hasn't this place seen enough death? Aren't you satisfied yet? Let me be the last. Just let them go."

He strains against the grip of his captors as Herrick paces, deep in thought.

"I'm going to make you an offer," he says. "I will spare your men- if you become one of us."

The soldier hesitates. "One of- what exactly?"

The men laugh.

"Come now, Mitchell," says Herrick. "Only a fool would deny the evidence of his own eyes. You must have heard the stories; your native Ireland is home to some of the earliest written accounts in history. You know exactly what we are."

He swallows hard. "So you're saying that you'll spare my men if I agree to become a- vampire?"

"There you have it," says Herrick.

"I have your word on that?" he presses.

"Yes," he answers. "You have my word."

"Alright," says the soldier, hardening his resolve. "I'll do it."

Herrick grins.

As he slowly moves closer, the soldier fidgets nervously in his captors' grip. Their hold tightens. Herrick is just a few inches from his face now, boring into him with cold blue eyes.

"Keep still," he says simply. "This is going to hurt." And he lunges forward and sinks his fangs into his throat.

Mitchell turns his back on the scene, leaning against the trunk of nearby tree. He squeezes his eyes shut as the sound of his own pained whimpers and increasingly labored breathing reaches his ears. Beside him Lia steps forward as if in a trance.

"So that's how it's done," she says half to herself, staring transfixed at the scene before her.

The soldier has gone quiet.

Mitchell chances a glance over his shoulder to see himself being lowered to the ground, barely conscious. Herrick turns his fangs on his own wrist and kneels beside the prone figure. Mitchell looks away.

Lia finally tears her gaze away from the scene and moves to stand beside him. "I thought that was very brave, what you did," she says.

"It doesn't matter," he answers bitterly. "It was all for nothing."

"Well, don't just stand there lads," Herrick calls out behind them. "Go and find the rest. We're having a feast tonight!"

The assembled vampires give a cheer and disperse, vanishing among the trees, but one lingers. "What about him?" he asks Herrick, nodding at the soldier lying on the ground.

"Leave him with his fallen comrades," says Herrick. "He'll find us when the hunger sets in."

Lia turns to Mitchell. "He killed them anyway?"

Mitchell nods. "Every last one, save the few that had already made it back to camp," he says. "Then he left me to fend for myself. I was such a fool."

"But you couldn't have known-"

"He was a monster," he shoots back. "And that's all he ever wanted me to be." He stalks off into the trees, eager to put this scene behind him.

Lia jogs to catch up. "Where are you going?"

"There has to be a way out of here," he says. "I've had enough of this place. Why did you bring me here? I need to find Annie-"

"This is _your_ Purgatory, Mitchell," she answers. "You brought us here. I'm just your guide-"

"Then guide me out of here!" he says angrily.

"Tell me what happened next," says Lia, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

He doesn't answer.

"Mitchell-"

He stops short, turning to face her. "You really want to know?"

Lia folds her arms across her chest and shrugs her shoulders. "It could be important."

Mitchell sighs, running both hands through his hair. "I woke up in a pile of corpses. There was no one else around. I didn't know what else to do, so I went back to my regiment; or what was left of it. I tried to just go on with things like normal. I even started to convince myself that it had all been a bad dream- Then the hunger came. New vampires are dangerous at best, but a new vampire that has never been given their first blood- they're not much better than an animal. I killed a man in my regiment without a thought; a man who had always been a friend to me. When I came back to my senses and saw what I'd done, I ran."

"Ran where?" asks Lia.

He shrugs. "To Herrick," he says. "I didn't know where else to go."

Lia considers this. "Well, I suppose there is some honor in that; trying to embrace what you had become. I mean, most people would've just wandered into a minefield and ended it all rather than go on living as a monster- Sorry- why didn't you do that?"

"I couldn't let it win," he says. "I thought- at least, I hoped- that Herrick could teach me how to control it."

"Did he?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "He taught me how to manipulate people; how to kill and get away with it. And I went along with it because it was the only way I could forget."

"So what made you stop?" asks Lia. "I mean, you have stopped, haven't you?"

"I've been clean for forty years," he answers defensively, before rethinking this response. "Well," he amends, taking a sudden interest in the bark of the tree he's leaning against, "minus a couple of false starts."

"What happened forty years ago?" she prompts.

"It's sort of complicated," says Mitchell. "I suppose you could say I was given a second chance."

* * *

George and Nina fly through the trees as fast as they can, growing more panicked with each passing minute. The sun is low on the horizon and the Change will be upon them any minute. Up ahead, Nina spots what looks to have once been some sort of bridge, now completely overgrown. Beneath it she can see metal bars.

"George, wait," she says as they reach the structure. She pulls on the bars experimentally, working her way down until she discovers a set of hinges. Another pull and a door swings open. "What about in here?"

He shakes his head. "No, it's too confined. I don't want to risk it-"

"And I don't want to risk us running wild and hurting someone else," says Nina. "Besides, you heard what Rory said. We'll be alright."

When he still appears hesitant she takes him by the hand, leading him inside and closing the door behind them. "We haven't got time to find something else. This is the best we've got. Just trust me, okay?"

"Alright," says George. He drops the pack and pulls her into his arms. "We'll be alright."

Nina gives an encouraging nod and takes his face between her hands. Pulling him down to her level, she kisses him passionately just as the moon begins to rise.

* * *

In the blink of an eye, the scene changes and Mitchell finds himself standing in a rather retro looking apartment, the dawn light just beginning to come in through the windows. The place smells strongly of bleach, but this does little to cover up the stench of blood; at least to his vampiric senses.

"Well this is quite the change of scenery," says Lia. "Where are we now?"

"London," says Mitchell. "April 21st, 1969."

"Groovy," she says with cheeky grin. "So what's past you up to on this lovely morning in 1969?"

"I must've just finished cleaning up," he answers, inspecting the spotless décor. "Herrick and I made a bit of a mess the night before." The stench of blood grows stronger as he moves further into the room. When he spots the two rolled up carpets in the middle of the floor, he stops.

Lia moves in for a closer look. "Are those-?"

"Bodies," Mitchell finishes for her. "Two girls; invited us home from a pub down the street. They never saw it coming." He tears his gaze away and moves to the window, scanning the pavement below.

"What about Herrick?" she presses, following after him. "He didn't stick around to help with the 'mess'?"

Mitchell shakes his head. "He's probably catching a flight to Rio by now," he says, staring fixated on the street below. He finally spots what he's looking for and his heart jumps to his throat.

"Who's that?" asks Lia, pressing herself to the window and catching sight of the lone figure coming up the street. "Friend of yours?"

"Not exactly," says Mitchell. "He's here to kill me."

The man approaches the house dressed in high-waisted jeans, a little looser than the current fashion dictated, and a pair of sturdy leather boots; a well worn brown bomber jacket hanging open over a navy blue button down shirt. His dark hair is longer than Mitchell can recall seeing it in years, yet still short enough that it stays off his face; but then Lucian had always been more mindful of practicality than the current fashion.

Lia regards him with interest. "He doesn't look much like an assassin to me," she says. "He sort of reminds me of my dad, dressed like that." She cocks her head to one side. "Only much hotter," she smirks.

Mitchell stares at her. "That man is one of the oldest beings to walk the earth," he affirms. "He's been killing vampires since the First Crusade. No hunter is more respected, or feared, than Lucian Harcourt."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "You say that like you're an admirer," she says. "Didn't you just say he was here to kill you?"

He says nothing.

Down below, Lucian pauses on the front step and reaches into his jacket to retrieve what appears to be a crumpled slip of paper, studying it for a moment before shoving it back in his pocket. He conducts a brief search of the front of the house, though he doesn't appear to find what he's looking for. He shifts his attention to the front door, ascends the steps two at a time, and steps inside.

The two observers turn as a door opens behind them and a young man in a suit emerges from the bathroom.

"Nice hair," Lia smirks.

"Shut up," Mitchell mutters under his breath.

The figure makes his way to the front door of the apartment and they follow him out to the central stairwell. At the top of the landing Mitchell pauses.

Lia shoots him an inquisitive look as the figure moves away from them and down the stairs.

"Aren't we going to follow?"

He shakes his head.

"Alright then," says Lia, folding her arms and leaning against the wall, her expression bored. "So let me get this straight; this guy hunts vampires?"

"Yes," Mitchell answers, staring off in the direction of the stairs.

She looks perplexed. "But- he is a vampire?"

"Yes," he says again.

Lia contemplates this. "So, you have your own sort of police force then?"

"Vampires have their own laws," he explains. "There are those designated to enforce them. It's part of the reason we've survived this long. We have a system."

There is a commotion on the landing below and they hear footsteps racing up the stairs. Mitchell grabs Lia by the arm and pulls her to the side as the young man barrels past, Lucian hot on his heels. He soon has his quarry pinned against the wall beside an open window, the drapes waving in the breeze.

"I know you haven't been working alone," he growls. "Where's Herrick?"

The younger man shakes his head. "I don't know," he answers miserably. "He was gone when I got up this morning."

Lucian doesn't appear convinced. "What, so he just left you here to clean up the mess then? Where's he gone?"

Again, he shakes his head. "I don't know."

He mutters a curse, releasing him with a shove, and the young man slides to the floor, dropping his head in his hands.

Mitchell steps closer, ignoring the crumpled figure and moving to stand at Lucian's side, studying him intently. Standing this close, he feels as if he could reach out and touch him- and he starts to wonder what would happen if he tried. He swallows hard passed the lump forming in his throat. "Lucian?"

The figure pays him no notice.

"He can't hear you either," says Lia. "I've already explained that." She eyes him critically. "Who is he to you anyway? You seem awfully warm towards someone who wanted you dead. Well, dead_er-_"

She is cut off as the wail of police sirens is heard coming up the street and Lucian turns to the window, muttering a curse under his breath. He turns to the figure still huddled on the floor and something seems to shift behind his eyes.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Mitchell," is the reply. "John Mitchell."

"Well then, John Mitchell," he reaches down and pulls him off the floor by the arm, "looks like today's your lucky day. You're coming with me."

"So he didn't kill you," says Lia as the pair disappears down the stairs. "Though it seems to me he had clearly intended to. What do you suppose made him change his mind?"

"I don't know," says Mitchell, staring after the retreating figures. "I've been hunting with him so many times; he never hesitates. But he did with me. All these years and I still don't understand…"

"If I didn't know better I'd say you care about him," she says.

"Lucian didn't just spare my life," says Mitchell, "he saved me. He taught me how to control my urges; how to live off bagged blood so I didn't have to feed on humans, and so I wouldn't be tempted. I learned more from him in a month than Herrick ever taught me in over fifty years. He gave me everything I needed to start a whole new life. I owe him everything."

"So you stayed with him," she says. "Herrick left so you took up with Lucian instead; traded one vampire mentor for another."

He stares at her. "Lucian is nothing like Herrick."

"I didn't say that he was," she answers innocently.

"What are we still doing here anyway?" he demands. "Annie isn't here. This is completely pointless."

"I told you," she responds, "This is _your_ Purgatory. Your life; and you've had a lot longer lifespan than most. It's up to you to decide where we go next."

"I just want to find Annie," he says angrily. "That's all. Are you going help me or not?"

"Tell me what happened next," she says, "after this little incident."

Mitchell runs his hands through his hair and draws a shaky breath. He knows there's no sense arguing with her. He can't move on without her, so the only thing he can do is play her game. And hope. "Nothing at first," he says. "I spent the next few weeks just trying to stabilize really. Rogue vampires don't do so well when they're forced off fresh blood."

"You mean like withdrawal," says Lia. "Like a drug addict."

"Yeah," he responds, avoiding her gaze. "Something like that."

"Then what happened?"

He shrugs. "We stayed together; it seemed to work for both of us. He helped me take control of my life, I helped him hunt."

"You mean, hunt other vampires?"

"Other rogues, yeah," he answers.

"I see," she says. "It takes a thief to catch one, eh?"

"I suppose."

"So you've stayed with him all this time?" she asks.

"Not exactly," he answers a little reluctantly. "I mean, for the better part of the first thirty years we were almost always together."

"But not now?"

"It's complicated," he responds.

"Well," says Lia, "thirty years, that's a long time, isn't it? A lot can change. People grow up; grow apart."

"Lucian is one of the Old Ones," says Mitchell almost defensively. "He has a lot of responsibilities. I couldn't always go where he went and I didn't have to. I got along just fine on my own."

"So you were on your own then," she says. "After Lucian."

He shrugs. "More or less."

"What's that mean?"

"I traveled," he says, taking a sudden interest in his fingernails. "I stayed with different people."

"Other vampires?" she asks.

"Yeah, mostly," he answers. "Until I met George."

"Your werewolf friend?"

"Yeah."

"And you've stayed with him since."

"Him and Annie, yeah," he says. "Why is this so important?"

"So, first Herrick turns you into a vampire, so you take up with him," she begins, ticking off one on her fingers. "Then Lucian is sent to kill you, but he doesn't, so you stay with him," she ticks off two. "But that didn't last, so you moved on to an indeterminate number of other vampires until you met George and Annie," she turns to face him, "And then Annie ended up here."

He stares at her. "What are you saying?"

Her expression turns hard. "I'm saying I think we've seen enough."

She turns on her heel and heads back towards the door they came through; only it no longer looks like the door to the apartment. It's been replaced with one made of steel and there is a single round window in the center, though the glass is too textured to be able to see what's beyond.

"Where are we going?" asks Mitchell hesitantly.

Lia pauses with her hand on the door handle and turns to face him. "End of the line."

* * *

Rory awakens at sunrise, shivering against the chill of the early morning. His clothes are torn and filthy and his bare feet are starting to go numb. He rises stiffly, trying to piece together the events of the night before, but it's all still fuzzy. If only he could remember where he left his jacket and boots…

He hears footsteps approaching and stiffens, focusing his senses in the direction of the sound. He thinks he can still manage to force a Change if necessary, but he doesn't want to try. He's completely exhausted.

A man emerges from the trees wearing a worn leather jacket and boots that have seen better days. He looks to be in his mid forties, light brown hair buzzed short; military style, and there is a single long scar running down the right side of his face from his forehead to just below the level of his eye.

Behind him hovers a young man in his late teens to early twenties dressed in the same sort of military style khaki pants and white tank top that the older man wears beneath his jacket. His hair is cut in a similar fashion, making the long scar running along the top of his head stand out against his scalp.

The older man regards Rory with suspicious grey blue eyes while the younger glances warily between them.

"So, you're a Skin Changer," says the older man by way of greeting.

"I'm a werewolf," answers Rory, confused. "Just like you."

"The vast majority of werewolves don't keep their clothes during a transformation," he says. "And they don't maintain the kind of control you demonstrated last night. That's on a whole other level, mate. Can you Change at will too?"

Rory raises a hand, his fingers elongating and nails extending into wicked claws. "Would you care for a demonstration?"

"What's your name?" asks the man, unfazed.

"Who wants to know?" he demands.

"I'm McNair. And this is my son, Tom," he answers, indicating the young man behind him. "We're looking for someone who recently moved into the area; someone with unique abilities." He opens his jacket, revealing a long wooden stake at his hip, the handle intricately carved in the shape of a wolf's head. "Someone who keeps the company of vampires. Now that sort of narrows the field, doesn't it?" He cocks his head to one side. "Do you make a habit of keeping in company with vampires?"

"It's none of your business what sort of company I keep," Rory growls. "Now, if you please, I have places to be. So I suggest you take your boy and leave me to my business. There won't be any trouble for you if you don't cause trouble for me.

McNair steps closer, fingering the handle of the stake. Behind him, Tom reaches for his arm.

"Dad-"

He ignores him. "I know who you are, Rory Monahan," he says in a low growl. "And I don't take kindly to those that betray their own kind."

"What are you talking about?" he demands.

"There's a war coming," says McNair, "and your little friends are at the heart of it. The ambition of the vampires will likely be their downfall, but I'd rather they not drag the rest of us down with them. Because I can guarantee that when the humans start hunting them, they'll be just as eager to wipe us off the face of the earth. So, I think you'd better figure out which side you're on."

Before Rory can respond, he turns on his heel and stalks off, grabbing Tom by the back of the neck and pushing him ahead into the line of trees. "And Monahan," he calls back over his shoulder before they depart, "We'll be watching." And he disappears into the trees.

* * *

There is a flash of light and Mitchell feels as if the world is spinning and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he finds himself immersed in another one of his nightmares.

He is standing at the front of a long train car, the stench of blood heavy in the air. There are people seated on either side of the aisle, spread all the way to the back; each covered in a large quantity of blood. As he makes his way slowly towards the back of the car, the grisly figures turn to regard him as he passes; some indifferent, others contemptuous. He swallows hard.

Near the end of the aisle he finds Lia slumped in a seat, the side of her throat slicked with blood. He lowers himself into the seat across from her, folding his hands in his lap to try and make them stop shaking. She cracks open an eye at him, her expression cold.

"Not what you were expecting is it?" she asks.

"I thought you looked familiar," he says softly, avoiding her gaze.

"So you were watching," says Lia.

He shakes his head. "They showed your picture on the news," he says. "I remember now."

"I see," she responds.

"I'm sorry," he says, barely above a whisper.

"What was that?" asks Lia. "I didn't catch that."

"I'm sorry," he answers, clearly this time. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"You didn't exactly do anything to stop it though, did you?"

"I couldn't," he responds. "Daisy-"

"Daisy what?" she cuts in. "She stuck you with her little knife? You're a vampire. It's not supposed to be that easy to incapacitate you."

Mitchell says nothing, staring down at his hands in his lap.

"You know, in another life it would've been you who killed me," says Lia, "You that stopped the train, not Cara."

He stares at her. "That's not true."

"You've killed before," she says. "You had no qualms about taking lives all those years you spent with Herrick; you said so yourself-"

"I'm not-"

"Oh, but you've changed now," she continues, regarding him coldly. "So that makes it alright. But only because of Lucian; is that right? 'You're only as good as the company you keep.' On your own you're just another one of the monsters. The stuff of nightmares."

"No-"

"And that's not the worst part is it?" She leans in closer and he can smell her perfume mingled with the scent of her blood. "What about all those people you pretend to care about? Lucian, George, Annie… You've taken something from all of them, haven't you? How much damage has been done to them because of you? How much have they lost?"

"Stop," he begs, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that are beginning to form. "Please…"

Lia sits back in her chair, studying him coldly. "Why did you come here?" she asks.

"For Annie," he says hoarsely. "I just want her back."

She laughs darkly. "Because that's going to make up for all this; the fact that you sat by while Daisy and Cara tore this place apart?"

"Because it's my fault she ended up here in the first place," he shoots back, palms pressed against the little table that separates them. "They were trying to get to me; Annie just got in the way. She doesn't deserve this. Don't you think I know what I've done? Yeah, I'm clean now, but that doesn't make up for all those years that I spent with Herrick; all those people that I killed. I hacked my way through the world and left a trail of blood a thousand miles long. I don't deserve mercy, I don't deserve forgiveness; but that's what I was given forty years ago, and I took it- because I'm selfish and a coward. Lucian was supposed to kill me and he should have; I still don't understand what changed his mind. I didn't deserve any better than that. But I can't change that now. I just want to make this right as best I can. Whatever it takes to get Annie back, I'll do it. Even if that means taking her place myself." He slumps back in his seat, feeling drained. "It would probably be best for everyone if I did," he says. "I don't want anyone else to suffer because of me." He turns towards the window as the tears begin to flow freely, but he doesn't care anymore. He simply stares out into the impenetrable darkness.

"Budge up," comes Lia's voice after what feels like an eternity.

He lifts his head to find her standing in the aisle, the two of them alone on the now spotless and empty train. There is no trace of blood to be seen on Lia or anywhere else. He shifts to the seat closer to the window and she slides in beside him.

"You can have Annie back," she says. "But there's a price."

He nods, staring at his hands in his lap. "I'll stay."

Lia shakes her head. "It's more complicated than that," she says. "You see, your fate has already been decided."

He looks at her, confused.

"There's a war coming; and it's going to affect all sides," she begins. "Each of you is going to have a part to play."

"Who?"

"You, Lucian, George," she says. "Even Annie. But your task is the most important of all."

"What do you mean?" asks Mitchell.

Lia grins. "You're going to kill the one who started it."

"Wyndam?" He shakes his head. "But he's one of the Old Ones. How could I possibly-"

"It has already been set," she continues. "You see, all of this," she gestures to their surroundings, "will eventually blow up in your face; bringing everything out in the open. Then, when all your friends have turned their backs on you, you will go to him. But hey," she says cheerfully, "think of it as your shot at redemption. I mean, martyrdom is a pretty big one for the good books, right?"

He swallows hard. "What are you talking about?"

"You kill him, end the war," she breaks into a grin, "and then you die."

* * *

Annie leans her forehead against the cold bars of her cell, feeling utterly miserable. She has no idea how long she's been here, it seems impossible to measure time in Purgatory; but it feels like an eternity. A part of her is at peace knowing that her friends are safe and that they are together, but she misses them terribly. Any further attempts she has made at contacting them have been unsuccessful and she feels lonelier with each passing hour. As she considers giving it another try, she hears a door open behind her and turns as a young woman enters the room.

"Whew! I'll tell you what," says Lia, unlocking the door to the cell. "It has been a busy day. But, the good news is, we've finally got you all sorted. You're free to go!"

Annie stares at her, not quite sure she heard right. "You mean… I can leave now?"

"Of course," she answers brightly. "It turns out the trouble with you was that you came through the wrong door. But next time you'll come through the right one and you won't get stuck in here."

"But, where am I going?" she asks skeptically.

Lia laughs. "Back home, silly," she says. "Mitchell's come to fetch you. You're all sorted. Mind you, you will still be dead of course. Your body's been decomposing for two years; no one wants to see that."

"Mitchell came here?" asks Annie.

"Yeah," she answers. "It's all rather fairy tale, isn't it? Him coming all the way to Purgatory to rescue you. Put's my ex's tattoo into perspective," she says, dropping onto the bench in Annie's cell.

"No it's not- I mean… We're just friends," says Annie.

Lia grins. "If you say so," she says. "But you'd better get going. Unless you'd rather stay here."

Annie shakes her head and turns towards the door, excitement building in her chest. She can't believe this is really happening. With her hand on the doorknob she pauses, turning back to the figure still seated in the cell. "Lia," she asks, "What happened to you?"

Her bright grin has faded as she sits staring at the opposite wall. "A very bad thing," she answers softly. But when she turns back to Annie her smile has slipped right back in place. "It's okay," she says. "Now run along! Mitchell's waiting."

This time she doesn't hesitate. With a final glance back at Lia, she turns the handle on the door and steps outside.

Annie finds herself at the end of a long corridor with a door every ten feet or so on either side. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust as the space is much more dimly lit then the room she exited. Finally, a lone figure begins to come into focus, standing at the opposite end of the corridor. He has his back to her, but she would know that silhouette anywhere.

"Mitchell?" she calls, taking a tentative step forward.

The figure turns and she can just make out his face in the shadows. She breaks into a run.

"Mitchell!"

She is flying down the corridor now, faster than she has ever run in her life. Getting to him is the only thing in the universe that matters right now. She barely manages to slow her momentum before launching herself into his open arms.

Her feet are lifted off the ground as he spins her around in a circle, holding on like he'll never let go. He finally sets her down and she holds his face between her hands, and he realizes belatedly that she has never felt so solid to him before.

"What happened?" she asks. "What did you have to do? Was there some kind of trade or-?"

He shakes his head. "No, there was nothing," he says. "No trade. Just mind games, that's all." He pulls her into his arms, soft curls brushing against his cheek. "I don't believe a word of it," he whispers almost inaudibly.

She hugs him back tightly and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing her in. Suddenly the air seems to shift and he can feel a breeze on his back. He opens his eyes and they are standing under a pavilion looking out over a quiet beach just as the sun is beginning to set.

Annie disentangles herself from him and squints at their surroundings. "Where are we?" she asks. "This isn't Bristol."

Mitchell laughs. "Um, no," he says. "I forgot to mention- we sort of moved to Wales."

_"What?"_

"Yeah, Barry Island."

"Oh, I want to go back," she frowns.

He quirks an eyebrow at her. "To Bristol?"

"No, to Purgatory!" she says.

He laughs. "Come on," he says, "It's not so bad. You're going to love the house."

"You promise?" she asks.

He breaks into a grin. "Yeah, I promise."

"Oh alright then," she concedes, taking a step towards him and looping her arm through his. "Let's go home."

* * *

The house is deathly quiet as George and Nina sit at the kitchen table, drinking their tea in silence. They made it back to the house early this morning without incident; where they were immensely relieved to find Rory waiting for them. He had been right about one thing; the two had certainly inflicted no harm on each other during their overnight confinement.

Rory stands with his back against the counter, arms folded tightly across his chest, deep in thought. He has divulged the details of his run in with the two werewolves to no one; feeling they all had enough to be getting on with at present. He for one has much more pressing matters on his mind.

He glances up at the ceiling, where he knows Lucian to be holed up in his room, and frowns. The older man has not emerged for hours and it seems he has no intention of gracing them with his presence any time soon.

The past twenty four hours have been difficult for everyone.

His senses still heightened from the previous night, he catches the sound of the front door opening and closing and lifts his head. George and Nina perk up as well and the three exchange hopeful glances; but no one makes a move. Suddenly the door to the kitchen is thrown open, revealing Mitchell standing in the doorway.

George searches his eyes, but the vampire's expression is unreadable. Annie is nowhere to be seen. He turns to Nina, who looks crestfallen, and hangs his head as tears begin to blur his vision. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure approaches and lifts the teapot from the table, tipping its contents into the mug in his hands. He lifts his head to thank the person, who he assumes to be Rory, and finds Annie grinning down at him with the teapot at home her hands. He jumps out of his chair and she barely has time to set it down before he envelops her in a crushing hug.

Mitchell finally allows himself to break into a grin as the whole kitchen explodes with activity. To his surprise, Nina is the first to greet him, crossing to the doorway and pulling him into a hug. She releases him and takes her turn greeting Annie, then Rory steps forward and claps him on the shoulder. Finally George makes his way over and hugs him tearfully.

He takes a step back as the three proceed to fuss over Annie; but his smile fades as he scans the room, realizing the person he had wanted most to see isn't there. He thinks to slip out quietly as the others are preoccupied when he senses a presence behind him. He takes a deep breath and turns around slowly.

Lucian stands in the doorway, looking out over the scene; but he is hesitant to go any further. His gaze comes to rest on Mitchell, who appears glued to the spot; dark eyes uncertain as they connect with steel blue. After what feels like an eternity, Lucian takes a step forward, flinching inwardly as the younger man tenses at his approach. Neither notices that the room has gone quiet.

They're less than two feet apart now and Mitchell can no longer hold his gaze as he feels the tears beginning to burn at the back of his eyes. Heavy hands drop onto his shoulders.

"Do you think you could you find it in your heart to forgive an old man for his lack of faith?" says Lucian softly.

He lifts his head, but he is unable to speak. Instead he simply steps forward into his open arms and buries his face in his shoulder, clutching the back of his shirt until his knuckles turn white, trying to assure himself that he's really there.

Lucian hugs him back tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head. "I am so proud of you," he breathes into his ear.

Mitchell only holds on tighter. In light of everything that has happened, it's the best thing he could have hoped to hear.

* * *

**_OH MY GOD IT'S DONE._**

**_I am SO SORRY it took me this long! I know I have said this often, but THIS CHAPTER has been the bane of my existence. Three months. No one is as upset about this as I am… But work is work and life is chaos and I would give anything to be able to quit my job and write full time. BUT that's not in the cards at the moment…_**

**_I will say that it is very hard to weave in elements of canon without turning this into a novelization of the series; much harder than writing my own unique scenes. However, there are certain elements that I really didn't want to stray from; including certain lines of dialogue. That being said, I must once again reiterate that I am not affiliated with the BBC and I OWN NOTHING. ((Except Lucian and Rory. They are mine. *squishes*)) But I hope I have succeeded in making this a new and interesting experience for those of you that are familiar with the show._**

**_While I can't make any promises as to how frequently I will be able to update given that my work schedule has kept me very busy; I will say that I don't expect to take nearly this long again! This chapter sincerely was the biggest hurdle in the writing of this series as I knew that there was only so far I would be straying from the original context and, again, I did not want to turn this into a novelization of the episode._**

**_I hope that the obscene length of this chapter has somewhat made up for the long delay. Until next time; thank you for reading (and for your patience) and I do hope that you will take a moment to leave feedback on this chapter. Any and all reviews are immensely appreciated!_**


	3. A Line in the Sand

**_Greetings readers!_**

**_I'm not even going to say it this time because apparently I jinxed it. I know it's been forever…_**

**_So I've decided to make some slight changes, mainly formatting related. I realize the song lyrics are dumb and just take up space and I'm sure most of you skim past them anyway so I've decided to omit them. If I have a song in mind that goes with the chapter, I'll simply include the title and artist in the author's note at the beginning._**

**_I've also realized that part of the reason it takes me so long to update is because I make my chapters waaaaay too long. To remedy this I've decided to split things up a bit. That way editing is much easier for me and I can keep up the momentum._**

**_So without further ado; enjoy the latest!_**

**Track 3: A Line in the Sand by Linkin Park**

* * *

Morning light pours in through the living room windows as Lucian and Annie wade through the debris from the night before. Empty glasses and beer bottles are strewn across the table, a few having found their way to the floor among half empty bags of chips and discarded throw pillows. The pair move through the area silently, filling the garbage bag between them as they go, trying not to disturb their companions still sleeping a few feet away.

"I wish I had a camera," whispers Annie with a wide grin, nodding over Lucian's shoulder.

He turns to follow the path of her gaze and can't help but mimic her grin.

George and Mitchell are out cold, curled against each other on the couch in a tangle of limbs, each snoring softly while Rory lies close by, draped across an armchair with his mouth hanging open.

"Poor Rory looks so uncomfortable though," says Annie, noting how his head hangs over the armrest. "You think we should wake them?"

Lucian shakes his head. "Let them sleep for a bit," he says. "I'm sure they'll wake up on their own soon enough."

The pair lapse into a companionable silence as they continue their task, eventually working their way towards the kitchen. As Annie begins to sort through glasses to be washed she breaks the silence.

"I wanted to thank you, by the way," she says.

"For what?" he asks, setting down the glasses he retrieved from the living room.

"For letting him go," she says.

Lucian proceeds to load the glasses into the dishwasher and says nothing.

"I know how hard it must have been for you," she continues. "I know how much you care about him."

He pauses in his task, smiling softly as he turns to face her. "It was his decision to make and I respected that; that's all," he says. "It was not my place to interfere. When you care about someone, there are times when you just have to respect their choices and understand that you don't necessarily know what's best for them. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is to let them go."

"Still," says Annie, staring down at her hands folded in front of her, "I know how important he is to you, and you are to him-"

"Annie, _you_ are important to him as well," he cuts in, placing his hands on her shoulders. "And I was not about to stand in the way of him trying to get you back; as much as I feared the worst would come of it. Besides, I care about you too, Annie. We all do. You didn't deserve to be in that place. I'm just glad that the two of you made it home safely."

Annie stares up at him with misty eyes, suddenly unable to find her voice.

Lucian is caught off guard as, wordlessly, she steps forward and kisses his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. After a brief pause he hugs her back, a small smile playing on his lips.

They are interrupted by a groan coming from the living room and Annie steps out of the embrace, squeezing his arm before stepping around the kitchen counter to enter the living room.

Rory sits up in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck with a pained expression. He looks up as the pair enter the room, squinting at them in the bright light. "You two look chipper," he comments dryly. "But then I'm sure neither of you has the pleasure of feeling like someone's pounding on your skull."

"There are some perks to being dead I suppose," Annie shrugs. "And to not being able to eat or drink."

"And to being a dinosaur," says Rory, giving Lucian a pointed look.

"Age has nothing to do with it," he answers. "I just didn't drink much last night. You three, on the other hand, finished that entire bottle."

"Don't remind me," Rory groans. He turns, noticing his companions on the couch for the first time, and breaks into a wide grin, his headache momentarily forgotten. "Get a load of these two," he laughs. "They been like that all night?"

"Pretty much," says Annie. "Honestly, sometimes I think those two are more of a couple than George and Nina. I think that's why she and Mitchell don't get on," she laughs, "he's competition."

Rory snickers before picking up a discarded throw pillow and taking aim. "Oi, lovebirds," he says chucking the pillow at George. "Better wake up before Nina comes down and catches you at it."

The pillow bounces off the side of his head causing him to awaken with a start, effectively jostling Mitchell awake. After taking a moment to register their position, the two quickly disentangle themselves, moving to opposite ends of the couch as the others laugh.

"Very funny," says George, squinting in the offending light.

Mitchell simply curls up on the other end of the couch and buries his face in the pillow clutched against his chest with a groan.

"I'd better make coffee," says Lucian with amusement.

"Coffee sounds fantastic," comes Mitchell's muffled reply.

The older man chuckles and returns to the kitchen.

George passes a hand over his face and searches his surroundings, confused. "Has anyone seen my glasses?" he asks.

"On the table beside you," answers Annie. "Nina put them there after you passed out last night."

"Yeah, where is Nina?" he asks, reaching for the glasses and putting them on.

"She went to bed last night like a normal person," Annie responds. "Where do you think?"

"She could have woken me," he pouts.

"I'm sure she didn't want to interrupt," answers Rory with a wry grin. "You two looked quite comfortable where you were."

"Shut up, Rory," the two chorus in response, inciting further laughter from the room. George returns to his pouting and Mitchell retreats further into the couch cushions, wishing they would all stop making so much noise.

If anything, the noise level increases as Nina descends the stairs dressed in her scrubs, giving George a none too gentle reminder that his shift starts in thirty minutes. While George races upstairs to get ready Annie busies herself in the kitchen intent on making breakfast for everyone.

"Really Annie, you don't need to go to all the trouble," says Nina. "I'm sure Mitchell didn't bring you all the way back from _Purgatory_ just so you could make breakfast."

Mitchell mumbles his assent into the cushions, giving a wave in Nina's direction from his position on the couch.

"Well, at least let me make some toast for you and George before you go," says Annie. "It's the least I can do before you two go rushing off to work. I like to make myself useful, you know."

"Well, if it means that much to you, you can make some for George but none for me, thanks, I've got no appetite," she answers. "In fact, I've been nauseous all morning. I think I'll just have some coffee."

"You should try to eat something after a night of drinking though," says Rory, passing her the coffee pot. "You'll feel better for it."

"Yeah, but I didn't drink much last night," she answers, filling her mug.

"Maybe you're coming down with something," says Rory. "You_ do_ work with sick people all day."

She shrugs. "Yeah, maybe."

Behind her Lucian frowns, sparing a quick glance at Rory over her head, but he says nothing.

* * *

Once George and Nina have left for work, Lucian slips silently from the house, unnoticed by the remaining occupants. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, he takes long strides along the pavement until, after a few blocks, he spots a phone booth on the corner. He scans his surroundings for any observers and steps inside, closing the door behind him. Checking the number against the contacts in his cell phone, he lifts the receiver, drops a few coins in the slot, and starts dialing. He taps his fingers against the top of the phone impatiently until, on around the seventh ring, a deep voice answers.

_"Hello?"_

Lucian breaks into a grin. "Good morning, Darius," he says brightly. "How's things?"

There is a moment's pause before a throaty chuckle carries over the line._ "Lucian, you bastard! I should've known it was you. No one else would call this number from an outside line," _says Darius, the distinct London accent apparent even through the poor connection._ "Not to mention at an hour like this."_

"Well, some of us still have to conduct our business among the living, you know," he answers. "I don't have the luxury of sleeping through the daylight hours."

_"And whose fault is that?"_ Darius quips._ "If you had just taken that position- which, by the way, I worked very hard to get put in front of you- you'd have it made right now. None of this traipsing about the bloody planet playing peacekeeper. We've got whole divisions dedicated to chasing Rogues. You should leave it to the young ones."_

Lucian shakes his head. "And how many times have those 'divisions' of yours needed bailing out?" he says. "I'm a soldier, Darius, remember? I'm not cut out for the day to day bureaucracy of the Council."

Darius chuckles. _"No, I suppose not. I'm forgetting who I'm talking to,"_ he says._ "Do you remember what they used to call you?"_

He doesn't answer.

_"'The Hammer of God,'"_ he says.

"A bit ironic, don't you think?" says Lucian dryly.

_"Perhaps,"_ says Darius. _"But then you have always been the most 'righteous' of us all. I always felt the title suited you."_

Lucian is silent.

_"But I'm sure you didn't call to reminisce about old times," _he continues._ "What can I do for you, old friend?"_

"Actually, there was something I needed to ask you," says Lucian, his tone serious as he remembers the point of this call. "I think we may have a problem."

_"What is it?"_ asks Darius, suddenly all business.

"I sent an urgent message to the Council a matter of weeks ago and I have yet to receive a response," he says. "Have you had any trouble making contact on your end?"

There is a pause. _"Well, now that you mention it; I haven't received any communication in some time now,"_ says Darius._ "Mostly I just send them reports, but it is unusual to receive nothing back for such a length of time. I suppose I've been too preoccupied to notice. I'm not sure how much you've been following, but the situation in London is a bit tense at the moment, to put it mildly."_

Lucian frowns. "I see," he says, brow knitted in concentration as he absorbs this new information. If Darius- who keeps in direct contact with the Council- has been met with silence, this could be worse than he thought. Much worse.

_"Let me make a few calls,"_ says Darius, pulling him from his thoughts. _"There must be some explanation. But in the mean time, I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss this with anyone. With everything that's happened lately I'm not sure who we can trust."_

He quirks an eyebrow at the remark. "What's that supposed to mean?" he says brusquely.

_"I hear you've been keeping some interesting company,"_ says Darius._ "I always knew you were sympathetic to the Lycos, but I never imagined you living with a pack."_

Lucian sighs inwardly. "You've got eyes everywhere, don't you Darius?" he says, scanning his surroundings as though he'll discover someone watching him. "But you don't have to worry about them; they aren't too interested in our affairs and they know nothing of consequence."

_"And what of Herrick's protégé?"_ he asks._ "Do you still think you can trust him?"_

Lucian clenches his jaw. "I'd hardly call him 'Herrick's protégé,'" he answers tersely. "John Mitchell escaped his Sire's influence a long time ago and I have traveled with him over many years. I have every reason to trust him."

_"Well, with Herrick gone, there are those who would look to him to take his place. That sort of power could be very appealing,"_ says Darius._ "He could easily become a rallying point for the Rogues, and that makes him dangerous. You need to keep an eye on him."_

"Thank you for your insight," he responds rather bitterly. "But I'm fairly confident that he is the least of our concerns at the moment."

_"Lucian,"_ says Darius, his tone placating. _"I understand that you care for him as if he were your own. All I'm saying is that you need to be cautious. He did destroy his own Sire. That kind of power can change even the best of us. All I ask is that you keep your eyes open."_

Lucian is silent.

_"I'll let you go,"_ he continues. _"Inform me if anything changes."_

"You have my word," he answers.

_"And Lucian," _says Darius, _"Don't do anything rash before you hear from me again."_

Lucian can't help but smirk in response. "You know me, Darius."

_"That's what I'm afraid of,"_ he responds, a smile in his voice. _"We'll speak again soon. Take care, old friend."_

Out of old habit, Lucian inclines his head. "Farewell."

* * *

Rory makes his way to the market, Annie's hastily scrawled shopping list shoved in the back pocket of his jeans. All morning she had complained about the shortage of milk and tea in the house, and so he offered to pick up a few things. It isn't as if he has anything better to do and he's hoping the walk will help clear his head.

He has yet to divulge the details of his encounter with the other werewolves to George and Nina. As stressed as the two have been lately he doesn't feel the need to concern them until he can gather more information. He's debating whether he should speak with Lucian first as well. Though he wouldn't normally involve a vampire in the affairs of his kind, he trusts the older man's insight. Not to mention the fact that he can't seem to shake McNair's words.

_"There's a war coming and your little friends are at the heart of it. The ambition of the vampires will likely be their downfall, but I'd rather they not drag the rest of us down with them..."_

The streets are quiet and when the wind blows just right he can smell a hint of the sea. Though the air is pleasant and he doesn't really mind the chill, he finds that it makes him feel a little homesick. Sea air tends to have that effect on him, but even so he finds himself drawn to the water. He's debating whether or not to take a walk down to the beach later when he catches another familiar scent on the breeze and stops in his tracks.

"Why are you following me?" he demands without turning around.

There is a rustling of leaves behind him as a figure emerges from the line of trees to his left dressed in khaki pants and a leather jacket that has seen better days. The figure takes a tentative step towards him, looking sheepish.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says, the thick Derby accent distinguishing him as clearly not being from this area. But then this is no surprise considering his own origins.

Rory turns to face him, eyeing the young man critically. "Tom, is it?" he asks.

He nods.

"Where's your old man?"

"He's not here," Tom answers insistently. "He's off looking for a new part for the van. We keep breaking down."

"I see," says Rory suspiciously.

"Look, I wanted to apologize for the way me dad came off before," says Tom. "He's not exactly the most trusting of strangers."

"Well, there's one thing we have in common," he answers. "And what about you? You're taking a big risk coming to see me on your own- knowing what I can do."

"I've just never met any other werewolves before," says Tom, shifting his weight nervously. "I always thought it'd be nice- finding others like us."

"Well, you should learn to be more careful," says Rory, not unkindly. "And less trusting. I've been traveling on my own for a long time and I've encountered plenty of others before. Some were alright, but most would kill you as soon as look at you if they thought you were encroaching on their territory. It can be very dangerous when you get too many of us in one place during a Change unless you're on very familiar terms, and that's pretty rare. Your best bet is to stick with who you know. It's not worth the risk."

He turns to go, feeling a little guilty for the look of disappointment on the young man's face as he does so; even if everything he said was true. But then he figures it's better for him to be let down by his blunt response than risk having his throat torn out by the next werewolf he encounters.

"Is that why you keep company with vampires?" Tom demands, stopping Rory in his tracks. "You don't get on with your own kind so you'd rather take up with_ them_? Is that it?"

"Like I said before; who I take up with is none of your business," he shoots back, turning to face him. "I met someone who proved I could trust him; a friend. If he happens to be a vampire, so what. I'm not prejudice."

"Well, if you trust him so much, you should ask him what's coming," says Tom. "Ask him what they're planning. My money says he don't tell you nothing. Maybe _you're_ the one who should be less trusting." And he stalks off into the trees, disappearing from view.

* * *

**_If you're following _Untold_ (which I hope you are) you will have heard Darius mentioned before. My casting choice for him is Idris Elba because I feel he fits this character and he is someone I would love to see acting alongside Richard. You'll be seeing more of him a little later and, well, you'll have to decide for yourselves whether to love him or hate him. That's all I'll say for now. ;)_**

**_We'll be digging into Lucian's past a bit here and there we encounter more of his acquaintances along the way. The 'title' that is mentioned just sort of came to me as I was writing this and I found it fitting. 'Lucian,' as I have mentioned before, means 'light' and I often think of him as the avenging angel in this story. As for the 'hammer,' I thought of something I read somewhere in which I believe the topic was the reason Thor carries a hammer and not a sword. "A hammer is both a tool to build and a weapon to destroy," or something along those lines. (Or was that a line from the latest Thor film? My memory is terribly…) I feel that Lucian is always riding the line between the two._**

**_Anyway; I hope you enjoyed the latest. I'll update again as soon as I can. (Though I won't jinx it this time by speculating on a time frame.)_**

**_Please let me know your thoughts! You never know; you may well influence the direction the story goes. ;)_**


	4. Follow

_**A very happy birthday to the wonderful Aidan Turner, without whom I never would've started this project.**_

_**Enjoy the latest!**_

**Track 4: Follow by Breaking Benjamin**

* * *

Mitchell sits cross-legged on the floor of the attic, sifting through a stack of newspaper clippings strewn across the floor. It's been nearly two weeks since he brought Annie home from that place, and while the rest of the house's inhabitants seem to have returned to some semblance of normalcy, he has only become more anxious. Six weeks after the investigation of the Box Tunnel incident began, the media attention has not let up and seems no closer to doing so than when the whole mess started. He abandons the stack of papers in his hand and reaches for another, searching for any information on leads in the case- and anything that may point him to Daisy and Cara's whereabouts.

The door creaks open behind him and he gives a start, shoving the papers out of sight before turning to the figure in the doorway.

Lucian leans heavily against the doorframe with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, a faded blue t-shirt hugging his broad frame. There is a hint of stubble on his jaw and dark circles under his eyes, the usual deep blue orbs taking on a dull grey. His tired gaze shifts between Mitchell and the poorly concealed stack of papers sticking out behind him.

"You're not going to get anything more out of those news reports, you know," he says, giving the younger man a pointed look. "It's been too long. Those two have done well to cover their tracks."

Mitchell sighs. "I just keep thinking we've missed something," he says, gathering the clippings into a pile. "I don't know what else to do."

Lucian pulls the door closed and strolls inside, looking on as Mitchell stuffs the stack of papers beneath a loose floorboard in the center of the room and rises to his feet. "Well, you could start by leaving this room once in a while," he says. "The others are beginning to wonder why you're spending so much time up here."

"What have you told them?" he asks sharply, pressing the board back in place with his boot.

Lucian takes a deep breath through his nose and closes his eyes. "I haven't told them anything," he answers, letting it out slowly, "as I have promised."

"But they've been asking?"

"It was merely an observation," he answers placidly. "No one has said anything directly. But if you don't stop acting so suspicious they're bound to start asking questions."

Mitchell releases a heavy sigh, dragging both hands through his hair as he crosses the room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed pressed against the wall. "I'm sorry," he says, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. "I just can't keep this up anymore. I can't take a job right now, I can't go out, and I can't just sit here while those two are up to God knows what- not to mention all this shit with Wyndam. We still have no idea what he's planning or what he may already have done since Bristol. I can't just do _nothing_ anymore."

Lucian absorbs his words in stony silence, a deep furrow forming in his brow. Mitchell can't help but marvel at the fact that after all these years he still finds the older man impossible to read. It's infuriating.

"Come downstairs," Lucian says finally, nodding over his shoulder. "There's something I want to show you."

* * *

Mitchell follows him down the stairs to his room at the end of the hall. Once inside, Lucian closes the door behind them and crosses to the bureau, pulling open the top drawer and rummaging around inside. A moment later he emerges with a pair of overstuffed envelopes in his hand. He passes one to Mitchell.

He accepts the parcel with a frown and turns it over in his hand. The envelope is sealed but there is no writing on the outside.

"Open it," Lucian urges.

Mitchell quirks an eyebrow at him but does as he's asked. Inside the envelope he discovers a respectably sized stack of cash and a British passport, which he pulls out for closer inspection. He flips it open to find his name and photo inside, the birth date listed as July 29th, 1985.

"I figured you hadn't updated yours in a while," says Lucian.

Mitchell shakes his head. "I don't understand."

"It's been over six weeks since I sent that message to the Council and there is still no word," says Lucian. "I think it's time for a more direct approach."

"So you want to go back to Romania?" he asks.

Lucian nods. "I agree with what you said," he answers. "We can't keep waiting around here forever; there's too much at stake. So I've been making preparations. I believe that returning to Romania is the next logical course of action." He folds his arms across his chest, studying the younger man intently. "Only this time I want you to come with me."

For a moment Mitchell simply stares at him, attempting to process what he just heard. "You want me to go with you to meet with the Council?" he asks in disbelief. "But I thought that no one was permitted to enter the grounds without being summoned."

"There is a risk," says Lucian. "I would not even consider it if I had another option, but something is not right and I need someone I can trust. I would like to have you by my side."

"There's always a risk. When has that ever mattered?" Mitchell answers. "If you're going then so am I. I'm not just gonna sit around and wait to hear from you. Not this time."

"Very well," says Lucian. "But before you agree I need you to understand something." He takes a step forward and places both hands on his shoulders, boring into him with his gaze. "If you choose to do this I need you to promise me that you will do exactly as I say without question. If I tell you to stay put, you stay put. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to leave me behind, you take the car and make for home. Is that understood?"

"Lucian-"

"_John_." He reaches up and takes his face in his hands. "You have to promise me," he says. "I mean it this time. This is unlike anything you've ever faced before. These are _my_ elders. It is imperative that you do exactly as I say."

For a moment, a silent battle rages between them, but in the end Mitchell knows that he cannot argue; at least, not unless he wants to be left behind. He can't bear the thought. Reluctantly, he gives a nod.

"Alright," he says. And, knowing that won't be enough to appease the older man, "I promise."

Lucian searches his face, as if weighing the sincerity of his words. "Good," he says finally, releasing him and reaching around to grab his jacket off the end of the bed. "I've already made most of the arrangements, but there's just a couple more things I need to take care of before we go. If you're up for it we'll leave first thing tomorrow."

"Yeah," Mitchell answers, trying to catch up with all of the thoughts racing through his head. "Sure."

Suddenly he's feeling less than enthusiastic about the whole thing.

* * *

Mitchell hates mornings. Especially when, after a long night of tossing and turning, he is forced to leave the comfort of his bed in favor of spending hours on the road.

"You can sleep in the car," Lucian had said after the third attempt to roust him an hour earlier. _Yeah right,_ he thought miserably. His neck was sore just thinking about it.

It is just after eight o'clock as he stands in the center of his bedroom, fully dressed in black leather jacket and boots. A duffle bag sits open on the bed stuffed with an assortment of plaid shirts and tank tops, a couple pairs of jeans, and other essentials. Stifling a yawn, he tosses in the last few articles of clothing he had laid out before kneeling beside the bed and pulling out the trunk he keeps hidden underneath. Laying one of his jackets across the bed, he picks through the trunks contents- a few wooden stakes and an assortment of blades- laying each item carefully on top of the jacket before rising to his feet.

"You look like you're preparing for battle."

Mitchell gives a start, turning sharply to face the figure standing in front of the closed door. "Jesus, Annie," he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. "You frightened me."

"Sorry," she grins, stepping further into the room. "I suppose I should've knocked instead of just 'popping' in like that."

"It's alright," Mitchell answers, returning to his packing.

Annie steps closer to the bed, eyeing the assortment of weapons with a frown. "Do you really expect you'll need all that?" she asks.

He gives a shrug, not meeting her gaze, and rolls the assortment of weapons inside the jacket, placing the bundle carefully inside the duffel bag. "It can't hurt to be prepared," he answers. "We're not sure what we're going to find." He zips the bag and turns to face her, noting her somber expression with a frown. "Annie?"

She stands at the end of the bed, shoulders slumped and hands folded tightly in front of her, dark curls hanging in her eyes. "I just... wish you didn't have to go," she says softly. "I wish things could be normal again; without all the fighting and the worrying over what might happen next. I just..."

"Annie," he breathes, taking a step towards her. "There's nothing to worry about. Lucian and I just need to check up on some things and we'll be back, okay?" He reaches out and takes both of her hands in his. "We'll be back before you-"

He stares down at their hands, her long fingers draped across his palms. There is a weight to her hands that he's never felt before, a softness to her skin. And as he runs his thumbs gently across her knuckles he notices something else; her skin feels almost... warm. He looks up and Annie is staring at him with wide eyes. "Did you-" he swallows hard, "can you feel that?"

She nods.

There is a knock at the door and the two spring apart as the door cracks open.

"Mitchell?" calls Lucian, poking his head in. "Are you ready yet? We need to get going." He pauses in the doorway, glancing between the pair curiously. "Am I… interrupting something?"

"No," they respond in unison.

Lucian raises his eyebrows, giving a slow nod. "Okay…" he responds, turning his attention to Mitchell. "Well, when you're ready, I need you to come downstairs. We've got a lot of ground to cover, so we'd better get a move on."

"Yeah," Mitchell answers, still rooted to the spot. "Be down in a minute."

With one last quick glance between them, Lucian gives a nod and slips out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

* * *

Lucian wanders into the kitchen to find Rory seated at the table, a steaming mug in his hands. At his approach, the younger man lifts his head, greeting him with a tired smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're up early," says Lucian, pouring himself some coffee at the counter.

"I figured someone should see you off," says Rory.

"That's kind of you," says Lucian.

Rory shrugs. "So what exactly do you two plan on doing in Romania?" he asks. "I mean, I know you have your responsibilities but I didn't think you liked involving Mitchell."

"Just a bit of business," he answers, turning to face him. "There are some things I need to take care of and Mitchell's spent so much time cooped up lately I thought I'd take him along." He leans back against the counter, taking a long drink from his mug. "Besides, I think he's still cross with me for being gone so long the last time. I don't think I could leave him behind again if I tried."

"Fair point," Rory grins. "He still getting ready?"

He nods. "Still packing."

"Figures," Rory muses. "So how long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Difficult to say," Lucian answers. "A few weeks at most I should expect."

Rory nods.

A lengthy silence stretches between them as the two sip their coffee in the early morning light. As the minutes tick by, Rory stares into the mug between his hands, a deep furrow forming in his brow. A question has weighed heavily on his mind over the past couple of weeks; something he knows he can only bring to Lucian. If he doesn't ask it now, he has no idea when he'll get another chance. He takes a breath.

"Lucian?"

The older man looks up from his mug, acknowledging him with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," he says.

Rory swallows hard. "If the vampires were planning something," he begins slowly, "Something big that could affect the rest of us- particularly others like me... you'd tell us, wouldn't you?"

Lucian stares back at him, his expression neutral. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if they were about to do something to draw attention to themselves," he answers, "to our world."

"Why would we do a thing like that?" he asks. "We've kept ourselves from the world for millennia; we have entire organizations dedicated to that end. Why would we jeopardize that now?"

Rory doesn't answer.

Lucian frowns. "Rory, what is this about?"

He shrugs. "It's just- I've heard rumors," he answers noncommittally.

"What sort of rumors?" he presses. "From whom?"

Rory hesitates for a moment, contemplating how much he wishes to divulge. "On the eve of the last full moon, do you remember that place we scouted?" he asks.

Lucian nods.

"Well, it turned out that it wasn't unoccupied like we thought," he says. "I sent George and Nina away from the area, hoping to minimize the damage, and- obviously- the three of us made it through the night in one piece. When I came to in the morning, I met another pair of werewolves; a father and son."

Lucian frowns. "Go on," he urges.

"They seemed convinced that the vampires are planning to 'start a war,' as they put it," he says. "They said I should watch my back because it's going to affect all of us. They were rather insistent."

"Well, I can't imagine where they're getting their information from, but I'm afraid they're mistaken," says Lucian. "It sounds to me like they're just looking to stir up trouble."

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs Lucian drains the last of his coffee and sets his mug in the sink. "If I were you I'd stay clear of those two," he says. "Anyone who goes around spreading those sort of rumors is just asking for trouble. And God knows we could all use a bit less of that."

Rory simply nods, staring down at the mug in his hands. His coffee has gone cold.

Mitchell steps into the kitchen with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his cheeks slightly flushed. He nods to Rory by way of greeting before turning to Lucian. "Ready?"

He nods. "Let's go." He tosses Mitchell his keys and the younger man heads back out of the kitchen. "Keep the others out of trouble while we're gone, will you?" says Lucian, giving Rory's shoulder a squeeze. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

Rory offers a weak smile in return. Somehow, he doesn't feel reassured.

* * *

Annie follows Mitchell and Lucian out of the house, dragging a sleepy George along behind her with Rory bringing up the rear. The boys say their brief farewells and after a good ten minutes of fussing, Annie finally hugs them both and allows them to get in the car.

"You will be careful, won't you?" she asks, lingering at Mitchell's window.

"Annie, we'll be fine," he assures her. "Stop worrying. I'll see you soon."

She opens her mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it. Instead she leans in and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "Look after yourselves," she says before retreating back onto the pavement to stand beside George, looping her arm through his.

The trio wave them off as they pull away and Mitchell waves back, his gaze fixed on the group until they finally round the corner. He sits back in his seat and pulls out his sunglasses, pushing them up on his nose and pulling his hat down further over his eyes. He looks over to find Lucian glancing at him sideways.

"What are you smirking at, old man?" he quips, leaning back against the headrest, arms folded across his chest.

"I wasn't smirking," Lucian responds, biting back a grin. "I was just thinking. You and Annie seem a bit... different."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demands.

"Oh, I was just curious," he says innocently. "Should we be expecting some sort of announcement anytime soon?"

Mitchell stares at him. "I- that's-"

"You're blushing," he smirks.

"Just- shut up and drive, old man," Mitchell shoots back, sinking lower into the seat and kicking his feet up on the dashboard, arms folded tightly across his chest.

As he pulls his hat down over his eyes, feigning sleep, Lucian shakes his head, chuckling to himself. It's going to be a long drive.

* * *

**_Hiiiii everyone. Yes, I'm still alive. So sorry it's been an eternity since the last update. I have since then quit the job I had and completed training at a new job. The upside is more money and a better work environment, the down side is I've been stressed as hell for the past few months. And I've had some health issues come up that have made for the perfect storm of "I can barely function right now." But by now I've settled a bit at the new job and am finding my routine, so hopefully I can get back to my writing more consistently again._**

**_Anyway, enough about my personal stuff. I hope you enjoyed the latest installment. Things are slowly starting to ramp up and we're getting to the good bits! (This last couple chapters have been a bear because they're mostly just build up and therefore bore the hell out of me to write.) I will forewarn you that the next chapter update won't come right away, but I have a plan._**

**_July marks the next session of Camp NaNoWriMo and I have set a goal to have this story completed by the end of that time. This means that I will be cranking straight through this thing to the end before I go back, edit, and begin posting. So apologies in advance for the coming delay in the next update, but I hope it will be worth it because I will then be able to post the remaining installments more frequently/consistently._**

**_As always, reviews are immensely appreciated; good or bad. As I do plan on publishing a novel in the future any and all criticism would really help. I know that my writing's not there yet, but I'm really trying to improve._**

**_Also, feel free to leave your comments regarding your thoughts or desires of where this story will go. Who knows? You may just influence the outcome. ;)_**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	5. Well Enough Alone

**_It is just after 4AM and here I am, getting ready to post a chapter…_**

**_This is a long one, so I'll keep the pre-chapter A/N short! I'd just like to remind you guys of my casting choices/name changes for certain Council members before we dive in…_**

**_Sir Ian McKellen….Julian, the head of the Council_**

**_Patricia Velasquez…...Nadira_**

**_Mads Mikkelsen…...Stefan_**

**_Idris Elba…...Darius_**

**_Fair warning, I think this is starting to get a lot more violent than I've written in the past. Feel free to let me know if you think I need to bump up the rating on this one. I'm still debating. I try not to take it further than they did on the show, but it's hard for me to have an objective view of it because I stare at it for so long._**

**_Special thanks to mi hermana (dwarfqueenbaena on tumblr) for being my beta on this one!_**

**_So without further ado, enjoy the latest!_**

**Track 5: Well Enough Alone by Chevelle**

* * *

Mitchell stands at the end of a long corridor. Doors of various shapes and sizes line the walls, each one just a few feet from the next. The place seems to stretch on for miles ahead of him with no visible end in sight. He turns around, only to find the same to be true in the opposite direction.

He takes a deep breath and starts forward, approaching the first door to his right. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches for the handle.

The stench of blood is heavy on the air as he pushes the door open on an all too familiar scene. He steps into the bedroom of a small London flat. The place looks like a war zone. He maneuvers around a broken chair in the middle of the floor and moves further into the room. A ceramic Christmas tree lies smashed on the floor, the base of it coated in a sinister shade of red. He continues forward, seemingly pulled along by an unseen force, and comes to a halt at the end of the bed.

The body of a young woman lies sprawled on the floor clad in bra and panties, her throat slicked with blood. Her blonde hair is stained as well, the liquid drenching her from the side of her head all the way down her face. Mitchell inches forward as if he no longer has control of his own movements. On the inside he feels like screaming.

The woman's eyes snap open and she gazes up at him with cold eyes, her lips parting in an almost predatory grin. "Hello, Mitchell."

He stumbles backwards, entangling himself with the broken chair in his haste to flee the room. He quickly regains his footing and launches himself back into the hallway, slamming the door closed behind him. He continues on past a few more doors before throwing himself on the handle of a door to his left. He shoulders it open without looking back- and immediately recoils.

A woman with long dark hair advances on him slowly with dead eyes and a wolf like grin, the scarlet stain spreading from her throat a sharp contrast against her pale yellow dress. "Have you come to join us?"

Mitchell keeps a distance between them, moving backwards into the hallway. Just as he turns to run, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and stops dead in his tracks. All along the corridor in both directions the doors are opening to reveal bloodied figures in various styles of dress moving into the hallway.

As a wave of panic threatens to overtake him, a familiar laugh echoes through the corridor like the ringing of a bell. He turns to find Lia standing at the far end of the corridor, the blood coating her throat dripping down to stain her blue cardigan.

She breaks into a grin. "You're running out of time, Mitchell."

* * *

Mitchell jolts awake with a brief sensation of falling and a humming in his ears. He blinks at the darkness until he registers his surroundings, finally identifying the humming as the sound of the car traveling along the motorway.

Lucian spares him a sideways glance from the driver's seat. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't manage to avoid that last pothole."

Mitchell nods absently, sliding his feet off the dashboard and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He reaches up with both hands and rubs his eyes, releasing a shaky breath.

"You alright?" asks Lucian; and though he can't see the older man he can feel those piercing blue eyes boring into him.

He nods. "Where are we?" he asks, quickly changing the subject.

"Nearly to Vienna," he answers. "We're making good time, but it's getting late. We should probably stop off for the night."

Mitchell nods. "Sure."

Lucian pulls off at the next motel they come across and parks in front of the lobby, leaving Mitchell with the car while he runs inside to see about a room. It's just after midnight.

Mitchell pulls his jacket tighter around his frame and sinks lower into his seat. With the engine off, it's getting colder. As he sits in the eerie silence, Lia's cryptic words echo in his head.

_You're running out of time, Mitchell._

He gives a shudder that has nothing to do with the cold.

The driver's side door opens, startling him from his thoughts, but he tries not to let it show in his face as Lucian slides into the seat beside him.

"We're in luck," he announces. "They only had one vacancy. It's just around the corner."

"Brilliant," Mitchell answers, feigning enthusiasm.

Lucian pauses for a moment, studying him curiously, but he says nothing. Instead, he puts the car in drive and pulls around to the other side of the building, managing to find a single vacant parking space near the stairwell.

They unload their things as quietly as they can and ascend the outer stairwell to the second level. Lucian leads the way past a few doors until he finds the number he's looking for. He unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping on the light switch on the way in.

It's a decent room as motels go; clean with two double beds and a television set atop a chest of drawers. There is a decent sized sink outside the bathroom at the back of the room and a coffee maker sitting on the counter. The set up is more than passable for a single night.

Mitchell immediately makes for the bed furthest from the door, dropping his bag on the floor at the foot and collapsing face down onto the mattress, his feet hanging over the edge.

"You could at least take off your boots," Lucian says with amusement, swatting at his leg as he passes.

Mitchell gives a muffled grunt in reply.

The older man simply shakes his head and steps into the bathroom.

A couple minutes later, Mitchell hears the shower running and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. The longer he stares at the white paint the more other images begin to bleed through; splashes of blood and a dozen faces that haven't haunted his nightmares for decades.

He sits up on the edge of the bed and drops his head in his hands, twisting his fingers in his hair. Lia's voice echoes in his mind as though she were standing beside him.

He gets up and paces the room, checking the locks on the door and coming back to stand in front of the TV. He stares at it for a moment and, deciding he needs the distraction, reaches for the remote.

Careful to keep the volume low so as not to disturb the neighbors, he flips through the channels- past the infomercials and the news stations- until he stumbles across some sort of panel style quiz show. He doesn't speak a word of German, so he has no idea what's happening, but he figures that might make it more interesting. Besides, he's really only interested in the background noise.

He sets the remote down and takes a seat on the end of the bed, unlacing his boots and setting them aside. Reaching for his duffle bag, he digs inside until he finds a pair of warm up pants and a faded grey t-shirt, along with the bag containing his toothbrush.

As he unfastens the buttons on his shirt, the lights behind him seem to flicker and he stops, sparing a quick glance behind him. The two lamps between the beds are fully lit. On the television screen, a woman with short curly hair appears to have won the round and is prattling excitedly in German. He shrugs off his shirt and pulls the tank top underneath over his head, tossing them in a pile beside the bed along with his socks. He's just starting to undo the belt on his jeans when the lights flicker once more.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," says a voice on the screen.

He turns toward the TV and freezes where he stands.

The quiz show contestants have disappeared and Lia stands in the center of the stage, roving over him with her gaze, lips parted in a predatory grin.

"What do you want?" he demands, struggling to keep his voice even.

Her grin widens, "I was just admiring the view," she purrs.

He rolls his eyes and turns his back to the screen, reaching for the grey t-shirt on the end of the bed and hastily pulling it on over his head. "I'm not in the mood for your games, Lia," he growls over his shoulder.

"Oh, don't be like that, Mitchell," she pouts. "I thought we were friends."

"That's hardly the word I'd use to describe it," he answers, pulling his shirt down and turning to face her, arms folded across his chest. "What do you want?"

"So demanding," she says, mimicking his stance. "Down to business then. I was just checking on your progress."

He raises his eyebrows. "My 'progress'?"

"Yes," she answers impatiently. "Your mission. Don't you remember?"

"'Kill the one who started the war,'" he says. "Yeah, yeah. Well, if you've got any ideas as to Wyndam's whereabouts or how I'm supposed to off one of the _Old Ones_, you let me know."

"Not getting cold feet now, are you?" she says. "All that talk about wanting to 'make things right,' and 'not wanting anyone else to suffer' because of you. Was all of that just so you could get Annie back?"

"No-" he shoots back, perhaps more loudly than he intended. He spares a glance toward the bathroom. He doesn't hear the water running anymore and realizes that Lucian will be out any minute. He turns back to Lia and lowers his voice so as not to be overheard. "It's just taking a lot longer than I'd hoped. He's not been easy to find."

"You're afraid," Lia declares with some hint of satisfaction.

Mitchell clenches his jaw. "I'm not afraid of you," he says.

"You're afraid of dying," she grins. "Maybe not of death itself, I mean, you've died once already. But you're afraid of what's waiting for you on the other side." She moves closer to the screen, whispering conspiratorially. "You know, you've got quite a reputation around here. I've met quite a few old friends of yours who are _dying_ to see you again. It's not polite to keep them waiting. Don't you think?"

"Do you even understand German?"

Mitchell spins around to find Lucian surveying him with amusement from the bathroom doorway, clad in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, a towel draped around his shoulders. Something of his distress must have shown on his face because the older man pauses in the action of drying his hair with the towel, a deep furrow forming in his brow.

"Are you alright?"

Mitchell gapes at him. "Didn't you-" he turns back to the TV to find that the scene has returned to normal. Lia has vanished and the quiz show contestants are immersed in their second round. "Never mind," he says quietly. "It's nothing."

He turns his back on the television and hastily slips out of his jeans, pulling on the black warm up pants he had laid out on the bed. He reaches for the bag containing his toothbrush and slips silently past Lucian, crossing to the sink.

Once he's finished, he sets his toothbrush aside and stares at his reflection, noting rather miserably that he does in fact look as tired as he feels. The harsh florescent lighting only serves to emphasize how pale he is. He runs the tap once more and splashes water on his face. As he reaches for a towel, he can practically feel Lucian's eyes on him.

Mitchell avoids his gaze as he reaches for the pair of jeans he discarded on the floor, reaching into the pocket to retrieve his phone. He picks up his duffle bag and sets it on the end of the bed, rooting around inside. He doesn't look up as Lucian steps closer.

"Mitchell," he says, "What's wrong?"

"I can't find my phone charger."

Lucian sighs. "That's not what I meant."

"Here it is," says Mitchell, retrieving the item in question from the bottom of the bag. He tries to slip past him, but the older man catches his arm.

"What's wrong? And please don't insult my intelligence by saying, 'nothing.'"

Mitchell's response dies on his lips at those words, and he finally meets the older man's gaze, noting for the first time just how tired he looks himself. A fresh wave of guilt settles in the pit of his stomach. "I'm just tired, that's all," he says. "And a little nauseous from the drive. I can't remember the last time I was on the road that long." It wasn't exactly a lie.

For a moment Lucian studies his face and he begins to think he isn't going to buy the line. Finally, he gives a nod. "Alright," he says, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before letting him go. "Can I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you," he answers. "I think I just need to lie down."

"Well, get some sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Mitchell nods absently as Lucian moves past him towards the sink. He spares a glance at the TV- the quiz show is still playing. He watches the screen for a moment before finally reaching for the remote and switching it off. He then sets the remote on the night stand, plugs his phone into the outlet behind the lamp, turns down the covers, and crawls into bed. He's asleep before he turns out the light.

* * *

"I need to talk to you."

Rory looks up from what has become his usual spot in the living room- the armchair in the corner closest to the window- to find a disheveled looking Nina standing in front of him, a few wild blonde curls stubbornly refusing to be contained in her ponytail. He closes the book in his lap and sets it aside, meeting her worried expression with a frown.

"What is it?" he asks.

Nina glances back over her shoulder, her lips forming a thin line as she scans their surroundings as though hoping not to be overheard. A bit unnecessary, Rory thinks, as George left for work over an hour ago and Annie wandered off on one of her daily walks. She turns back to him and takes a deep breath.

"I'm pregnant."

For a moment Rory simply stares at her, struggling to comprehend what he just heard. After an awkward pause he finally manages to retrieve his lower jaw from the floor and find his words again. "That's- that's wonderful."

Nina stares at him. "Rory-"

"That's not wonderful? That's terrible. Nina, I wish you would stop staring at me like that and tell me what I'm supposed to say here-"

She heaves an exasperated sigh. "What am I supposed to do?" she says. "I mean, how will it even work? Should I go through with it?"

"Um, I think that's probably a discussion better had with George-"

"But this is not exactly normal is it?" she says.

Rory pauses, finally comprehending why he has been dragged into this conversation. _Oh._ "You mean, because of the whole werewolf thing."

"_Yes_," she answers, releasing a breath.

Rory sits back in his seat, staring into nothing as he tries to determine how best to answer that question. "Honestly," he begins, "it's difficult to say. I mean, I've never encountered anyone in your…situation… before. Most of the werewolves I've met have been pretty solitary. None of them have exactly been the type to settle down and start a family."

Nina slumps into the chair across from him and rubs her face tiredly. "But isn't there some sort of network or something?" she presses. "Someone you could ask?"

"Not really," he answers. "Like I said, most of them are pretty solitary."

She pauses for a moment, thinking over his words. "What about the last full moon," she says. "That night you said there were others; that's why you sent us away. Could they still be in the area? Maybe if we tried to find them-"

"Yeah, I've already been in contact," he cuts in. "There's a pair of them living out of a van in the woods- a father and son."

She stares at him. "And when were you gonna tell us?" she demands.

"I have reasons to question their motives," he answers. "I think they may be looking to stir up trouble. Lucian said-"

"Lucian?" her expression hardens. "You mean you talked to Lucian about this before bothering to mention it to either of us?"

Rory sighs inwardly. "Look, all I'm saying is that we have every reason to be cautious-"

"If the one has a son that could be the answer we're looking for," she cuts in.

"Alright, fine," he concedes. "If you want I can see about tracking them down, but we'll need to be careful. I have no way of knowing what they're capable of or what their true intentions are. And I'd like to discuss it with George first as well. Getting in contact with these people could have a negative effect on all of us."

Nina shakes her head. "He doesn't know yet," she says. "I don't… I'm not sure if I want to tell him or not."

"Wait, hang on," says Rory, staring at her in disbelief. "You mean you told _me_ about this before you've even told _George_?"

"I need to make sure it's okay first," she answers. "And, anyway, this is _my_ decision, okay? George is too, well, George. I can't handle his stress right now on top of my own."

Rory sighs. "Alright," he says. "Let me see if I can track down our new neighbors."

* * *

The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon as Lucian maneuvers the car along the narrow winding road. The path cuts through a heavily wooded area, the trees so tall and so deep that it is impossible to see beyond them. Had Lucian not already known the road's location, Mitchell is sure they never would have found it. Even now, he questions if it really even leads anywhere.

After what feels like an eternity, they finally enter a clearing. Mitchell gapes at the sight before them.

A grand castle is set into the hillside, the three spires that he can see stretching towards the sky. He can almost feel the age resonating off the massive stone walls; an echo of centuries past. The setting sun glances off the ancient glass set in the upper windows, giving the illusion that the upper level is being engulfed in flames.

"Jesus," he mutters. "I know you said the place was a fortress, but I didn't think-"

"That I meant that literally?"

Mitchell nods.

"This castle has served our purposes for centuries," says Lucian. "It was once practically a small city; a refuge of sorts for our kind. A place where no one needed to hide what they were. But there are so few of us now. The halls became empty and after a while the Old Ones decided that only a select few would be permitted to take up residence here. Or even set foot inside the walls. It's practically hallowed ground."

Lucian continues down the long drive, maneuvering the vehicle around the circular courtyard and up to the front gate. As he puts the car in park, Mitchell spares him a sideways glance.

"We're just gonna walk in the front door?" he asks. "That's a little bold, don't you think?"

"It won't make any difference," he answers. "They'll know we're here soon enough."

After a brief check of their weapons, Lucian leads the way up the long front staircase to the ornately carved double doors which serve as the entrance. He pauses just outside.

"Are you gonna ring the bell or should I?" Mitchell smirks.

Lucian quirks an eyebrow at him before retrieving a pocket knife from the inside of his jacket. Wordlessly, he flicks open the blade and drags it across his open palm.

Mitchell starts forward. "Whoa, what are you-"

He holds out a hand to halt his progress, then he lifts his bleeding palm and presses it against the door.

A few moments later, Mitchell hears the sound of metal gears clanking and turning. He stands rooted to the spot as the doors swing open.

"It's a blood seal," Lucian explains. "Only an Old One can open these doors; from the outside or from within."

"That's one way to maintain security," says Mitchell.

Lucian nods, taking a step toward the entrance. When Mitchell doesn't immediately follow, he turns to face him. "Are you coming?" he asks.

"Yeah," he answers with less certainty than he intended. "Right behind you."

Their footsteps echo through the cavernous entrance hall as Lucian leads the way inside. He closes the doors behind them as quietly as he can, plunging them into near darkness. As he leads the way deeper into the castle, Mitchell takes a deep breath and follows behind him, eyes scanning the shadows. The place is eerily quiet. The air itself seems still.

The darkness grows more dense the further they go. There does not appear to be any light coming from the rooms they pass.

"Do they usually keep it this dark?" asks Mitchell.

Lucian shakes his head.

"Maybe there's no one here."

"There's always someone here," he answers. "Let's keep moving. Stay close."

They wind their way through the halls of the lower level, checking the different rooms as they pass. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, they ascend to the second level. Mitchell notes the number of rooms and sighs inwardly. He spares Lucian a sideways glance.

"Maybe we should separate," he suggests. "We could get through it faster."

Lucian frowns. "Alright," he says after a moment's pause. "But if you meet anyone, do not engage. Come back and find me."

Mitchell nods. "Alright."

He takes the hallway to the left and Lucian goes right. Soon the only sound he can hear is that of his own footsteps.

He picks his way along slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. Each room he comes across seems just as deserted as the last.

As he rounds the corner at the end of the hall, Mitchell can see a dim light shining beneath a door up ahead. He pauses, sparing a glance back over his shoulder, but Lucian is no longer within view. For a moment he hesitates, locked in an internal debate as to whether or not he should proceed. Finally he turns and continues his progress, moving forward towards the source of the light.

Outside the door Mitchell stops to listen for any sign of movement from within or the slightest murmur of voices. When he discovers nothing, he reaches for the handle and slowly pushes the door open.

Shelves upon shelves of books line the walls of the room, a few ancient looking pieces of furniture dotted around the space. A pair of low burning sconces cast eerie shadows across the room, adding to the pale glow of the moonlight pouring in through the single window set in the opposite wall. Mitchell wanders further into the room and over to the shelves, his curiosity getting the better of him. Some of the tomes look truly ancient, their leather binding cracking and held together by bits of twine. Some of the spines are imprinted in languages he doesn't even recognize and appear to have been etched by hand, other titles look relatively new. He marvels at the extensive collection.

The sconces flicker suddenly and he feels the very air in the room begin to shift. It is a strange sensation that causes his blood to run cold, stopping him in his tracks. He senses a presence behind him, foreign yet somehow familiar; a sense of power that he has felt before. It does not ease the sudden sense of panic beginning to rise within him. He swallows hard and turns around slowly.

A powerful figure is silhouetted in the doorway as though he had materialized from the darkness itself. Coal black eyes stare down at him coldly, fists clenched at his sides. That sense of power he felt seems to pulse from the figure in waves- a sort of energy he now realizes he has sensed in Lucian, only this time it feels directed at him in full force, causing him to recoil. His eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape, but the man's broad frame blocks the exit. The man smiles, revealing brilliant white teeth.

"I thought I smelled a rat," he says, the London accent taking Mitchell by surprise. "Has he sent you to finish the job?" He sizes him up with a sneer. "I'm afraid he'll have to do better."

Mitchell shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb with me, boy," he shoots back, stepping further into the room. "If he's sent you here than he must still be nearby. Now, where is he?"

Mitchell backs away as the man advances, trying to keep as much distance as he can between them. "Where's who?" he responds, catching himself before he backs into the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The man pauses in his advance, narrowing his eyes at him. "You think this is a game, don't you?" he accuses. "You think that just because you've got an Old One on your side it means you can go against the rest of us; a young upstart like you. Well I've got news for you," he undoes the buttons on his suit jacket and shrugs it off is shoulders, tossing it over the back of a chair. "You are embarrassingly outmatched."

The man moves towards him and Mitchell grabs for the wooden chair behind him, hurling it at the figure full force. He takes advantage of the momentary distraction and sidesteps him, running toward the open door, but the man recovers quickly. Faster than he thought even a vampire could move the man catches him by the front of his jacket and hurls him against the opposite wall, the back of his head connecting with the stone hard enough to make him see stars. He slides to the floor, shaking his head in an effort to make the world stop spinning, but his attacker gives him no time to recover. As he scrambles to get to his feet, a fist connects with his jaw, sending him to the ground once more. The man pins him on his back and as the world comes back into focus, he catches a glint of metal. He barely manages to get an arm up before the blade comes down on his throat.

"So here's how this is going to work," growls the vampire. "You tell me where he is or I make this a very slow and agonizing death for you. Between you and me, I'd rather turn you to ash than stain the carpets with your filthy blood, but I'll do what needs to be done to get my information."

"I already told you, I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" Mitchell answers, straining with both arms to keep the tip of the blade from piercing his throat.

"Wrong answer."

Mitchell can't stop the scream that tears from his throat as the blade plunges into his left shoulder all the way to the hilt. He claws at the hand holding the blade, but the pressure only increases.

"Let's try this again," the man jeers. "It's a simple question. You give me the answer and this all goes away. Now, where the hell is Wyndam?"

"Oh, you've got to be f-" says Mitchell through gritted teeth. "I don't work for Wyndam! And if I knew where the hell he is I'd have killed the bastard myself by now!"

"_Don't lie to me!_"

The man twists the blade in his shoulder and it feels as if his whole arm has been engulfed in flames. He hears someone screaming and it takes several seconds for him to realize that he is the one making the sound. Just as he's ready to black out from the pain, a familiar voice echoes through the room.

"Darius, stop!"

Lucian steps into Mitchell's line of vision, his fists clenched at his sides. Mitchell tries to call out, but he can't seem to find his voice, his breath coming in gasps. All the while, the older man does not take his eyes off his current target.

"Let him go," he demands.

The man glances between them, realization slowly dawning on his face and he starts to laugh, a deep throaty chuckle. "So this is Herrick's protégé," he says. "I thought I'd caught one of Wyndam's spies. I must admit I was expecting someone more- well- threatening, I suppose."

Mitchell mutters a curse, struggling against his hold, which only serves to jar the blade buried in his shoulder. He drops his head back onto the floor with a groan, closing his eyes as the room begins to spin.

"And what was it I told you," he continues, "about not doing anything rash? Yet not only do you show up unannounced, but you bring _him_?"

"I won't ask you again, Darius," Lucian growls, retrieving the silver stake from inside his jacket and extending it to a point. He clenches his fist around the handle, holding it at his side. "Let him go."

The grin vanishes from Darius's face, his gaze shifting between Lucian and the weapon in his hand. "Are you really going to use that?" he says calmly. "Are you prepared to kill one of your own for the likes of him… old friend?"

Lucian releases a breath, closing his eyes, and some of the tension seems to leave him. When he looks back at Darius his eyes are sad. "Please, Darius," he says softly. "Do not make me do something I do not wish to do."

The seconds seem to stretch on for hours as a silent battle rages between the two, and it is all Mitchell can do to hang onto consciousness. After what feels like an eternity, he senses a shift, as if the pressure in the room has changed.

"Very well," says Darius.

Mitchell cries out as the blade is suddenly ripped from his shoulder, and he claps a hand over the wound. He feels the pressure leave him, but less than a second later there is another pair of hands on him. He lets out a groan as Lucian pulls him into his lap and begins tugging at his wrist to inspect the wound. As new pressure is applied to his shoulder, the pain becomes too much to bear. He allows his eyes to fall closed and lets the darkness take him.

* * *

Rory trudges through the woods with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, sneakers crunching the freshly fallen leaves beneath his feet. The sun is just beginning to set, bringing a drop in temperature along with it which only serves to further sour his mood. After nearly an hour of scouring the area, he has yet to find any trace of his quarry and, as important as he knows this is to Nina, he's silently hoping that they have moved on.

It was no small task trying to convince Nina to stay behind, but he was finally able to convince her that it was much safer for him to handle this endeavor on his own. He knows little to nothing about these Wolves and has even less reason to trust them based on previous encounters. He'll get the information she needs, but he would much rather not bring her _or_ George in direct contact with them if he can help it.

He is just about to give up his search when he catches a familiar scent on the breeze. It's been long enough since the full moon for his senses to have dulled to somewhat normal, but he has not survived this long on his own without developing the ability to tap into those senses apart from the lunar cycle. He veers off to the right, following the scent, until he spots a large patch of white in the trees. Moving closer, he discovers a rather run down looking van parked in the clearing with the hood up, evidence of a campfire a few feet away from it. He can hear the sound of the engine being turned over, sputtering as it fails to fully start, before another attempt is made with the same result. He pauses a moment, taking stock of his surrounds, then squares his shoulders and marches purposefully toward the van.

"Well, look who we have here," drawls McNair, stepping around the front of the van from the driver's side. He wipes his hands on a grease stained handkerchief, sizing him up as he draws closer. "How did you even find us here? I covered our tracks pretty well."

"I know a few tricks," he smirks.

"I see," says McNair, studying him intently. "So, have you finally come to turn in your vampire friends? Show some loyalty to your own kind?"

Rory shakes his head, eyeing the older man disdainfully. "You and I have entirely different definitions for the word 'loyalty,'" he says. "But let's not go there; I didn't come here to continue that argument."

"So what _are_ you doing here?" he asks. "Tom tells me you didn't seem eager to see either of us again when he last saw you."

"I'm just looking for information," answers Rory.

"What sort of information?"

Rory takes a breath. "I need to know if you've ever heard of two werewolves conceiving a child."

McNair raises his eyebrows. "Why? You looking to add to your little family?"

Rory fights the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not here for myself," he says. "I'm asking for- never mind. I just need to know if you've ever heard of a werewolf giving birth to a child. If either would survive the pregnancy and what sort of… _complications_ one would expect."

For a moment McNair simply stares at him, his expression a mask of indifference. "Sorry mate," he answers, ducking his head beneath the hood of the van. "I can't help you there."

Rory shakes his head, chuckling darkly to himself. "Why did I even bother?" he mutters. "As if you'd tell me anything even if you did know. Forget it." He turns on his heels, heading back the way he came. "Have a nice life."

"Hey Monahan," he calls after him. "Where did your vampires disappear to? Will they be returning anytime soon?"

Rory stops in his tracks, turning back to face him. "Have you been spying on us?" he accuses.

McNair sneers. "I told you we'd be watching," he says.

Rory stalks over to him, a challenge in his gaze. "Now you listen to me," he growls, just inches from the older man's face. "I told you before; it's none of your business what sort of company I keep. Now, I don't take kindly to threats. Not to myself or _any_ of my friends. If you step one toe out of line, if I you become a problem for _any_ of us, I'll take you out myself, do you understand?"

McNair's grin only widens, a hint of the Wolf rising to the surface. "Be seeing you, Monahan."

* * *

Lucian keeps pressure on the wound as Mitchell slips from consciousness, trying to stem the flow of blood seeping through his shirt.

"Julian will want to see you," says Darius, striding over to the chair to retrieve his jacket. "In fact, he may already know you're here."

Lucian ignores him. "I'm taking him upstairs," he says sharply, slipping one arm behind Mitchell's knees and adjusting his grip.

"It would not be wise to keep him waiting," Darius answers calmly, draping his jacket over his arm.

"I'm not just going to leave him here to bleed, Darius!" he shoots back, lifting him into his arms and rising to his feet.

"Very well," he answers. "But we'll need to be quick." He strides ahead of Lucian and pulls open the door, turning to look at the other man expectantly.

Lucian stares at him.

"Are you coming?" he asks.

Lucian regards him curiously, but eventually he nods, shifting the burden in his arms. "Alright."

He follows Darius up a flight of stairs and down another long corridor to the wing he recognizes as the place he took up residence during his last visit. Darius pushes open a door on the left and turns on the light, leading the way inside.

"Set him over there," says Darius, indicating a heavy oak table towards the center of the room. "I need to get a few things."

"For what?" asks Lucian.

"The blade I pierced him with was solid silver," he answers, draping his jacket over a nearby chair. "It's going to take some time for it to heal properly, so we'll need to stop the bleeding."

Lucian gives him a dark look as he exits the room before shifting the burden in his arms and walking over to the table. He lays him down gently and shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, folding it up and placing it under his head. Mitchell doesn't stir.

Several minutes later, Darius returns with a bundle of clean cloths and towels and a jug in his hands, a wide eyed but determined looking young man in tow, equally burdened with supplies. At a pointed look from Lucian he pauses, nodding at his companion.

"Lucian, this is Malcolm," he says. "My assistant. He's a lot older than he looks and entirely reliable."

"My lord," greets Malcolm, giving an awkward sort of bow given his burden.

"Lucian's fine," he answers. "I've not been anybody's 'lord' for a very long time."

"It's alright, Malcolm," says Darius at the younger man's confused look, walking around to the other side of the table and setting down the supplies. "Lucian never has been one to stand on ceremony. You can address him as he likes."

"Yes sir," answers Malcolm, glancing between the two uncertainly before going to stand beside Darius.

Lucian watches Darius closely as he leans over to inspect Mitchell's shoulder, peeling back the fabric of his outer shirt and jacket with a frown. The wound is seeping blood. He straightens.

"Right then," he says. "Help me get this off him."

The three work quickly to remove Mitchell's outer layers, Lucian doing most of the work to support him and keep them from jostling his injury too badly. He lays him back down gently, now with nothing more than a thin grey tank top covering his chest. Mitchell stirs but he does not open his eyes.

Darius sets the jug on the table by his head.

"What is that?" demands Lucian as he unscrews the lid. Darius pauses in his task to quirk an eyebrow at the other man.

"Clean water," he answers patiently, taking a strip of cloth in his other hand. "You can inspect it if you like, if you really have so little trust in me."

"I will take you at your word," is the mumbled reply.

The older man's gaze lingers on him for just a moment before he returns his attention to the task at hand. "Keep him still," he says.

As he starts to pour the water over the wound, Mitchell's eyes fly open with a gasp. He tries to sit up, but Lucian's hand on his shoulder keeps him in place.

"Easy," he soothes, laying a hand on his head.

Mitchell's frantically darting gaze comes to rest on Lucian and he relaxes slightly, dropping his head back onto Lucian's jacket. "What's happening?" he asks groggily, gripping Lucian's elbow with his free hand, the other being restrained by Malcolm.

"I stabbed you, remember?" Darius supplies, earning a glare from Lucian. "That's what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong."

Mitchell hisses as he pours more water over the wound, trying to jerk his arm out of Malcolm's grasp. "Is that really necessary?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"The blade was silver. It won't heal so easily on its own. And the more you struggle, the more this is going to hurt," says Darius as Mitchell jerks away once more. He gives Lucian a pointed look. "You know, you're not doing a very good job of keeping him still."

Lucian shoots him a glare before turning his attention back to Mitchell. "Try to relax," he says, smoothing his hair back off of his forehead, the other hand gripping his good shoulder.

Mitchell squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw as Darius begins wrapping the bandages around his shoulder, his free hand clutching the fabric of Lucian's shirt at his side. As the first set of bandages is roughly pulled tight he bites back a cry, turning his head to one side and tightening his grip on Lucian.

"Darius-" says Lucian, a warning in his tone.

"If I don't apply enough pressure he'll just keep bleeding," he answers. "Unless you'd rather I stitch him up instead. Your choice."

Mitchell groans, twisting his fingers even tighter in the fabric of his shirt, his breathing becoming increasingly labored.

Lucian cards a hand through his hair until he relaxes his grip, if only a little bit. "Well, you don't have to be so rough," he aims at Darius.

"Are you going to let me finish or shall we prolong this further?" he shoots back.

Lucian glares at him, but he clenches his jaw and says nothing.

Darius continues his task in silence, wrapping a second set of bandages around Mitchell's shoulder and tying them off- considerably less roughly this time, but Lucian pretends not to notice.

By the time he finishes, Mitchell has slipped from consciousness once more, his complexion considerably paler than Lucian would like.

"We don't have much by way of a supply," says Darius, wiping the blood off his hands with a clean towel, "but I'll see what I can drum up. In the meantime, it would be wise if you and I went to Julian. He'll have expected me back by now and the longer you wait to declare your presence here the worse it will be for both of you." He nods in Mitchell's direction, "I suggest you put him in one of the guest rooms and clean yourself up as best you can. Malcolm and I will finish in here; I'll come and fetch you when we're done."

Lucian stares down at the pale figure, a sense of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. Silently, he lifts Mitchell's unconscious form into his arms and heads back out into the hallway to do as Darius bade. What choice does he have?

* * *

Darius leads him down a long corridor deep within the depths of the fortress. There is little light, yet Lucian knows this path well; he had walked it many times during his last visit, going to and from the Council chambers.

They pause outside a set of ornately carved double doors and Lucian straightens his jacket, suddenly feeling quite underdressed in his jeans and leather boots beside Darius clad in suit and tie. He spares the other man a sideways glance, but Darius simply smirks and pushes the door open.

Lucian comes up short as he steps inside, surveying the chamber with wide eyes. The place looks like a war zone. Broken chairs are scattered across the floor alongside several overturned tables. Blood stains the marble floor and is splashed against the walls. Atop the platform where the Council usually sits most of the chairs have been overturned and he sees many unfamiliar faces moving about; vampires much too young to even see the inside of these walls. At the center of it all sits Julian, nodding as a young vampire points out something of interest among the papers spread on the table before him.

As if sensing their presence, Julian lifts his head and his gaze locks on Lucian. He raises a hand, silencing the young man beside him, and rises to his feet.

Lucian moves to stand in the center of the room and gives a low bow, keeping his eyes on the floor. Darius lingers just behind him.

The room falls silent as Julian descends the platform and strides to the center of the room. He stops directly in front of Lucian, who maintains his bow.

"I hope that you will forgive me, my lord," he says, "for coming here unannounced."

Julian scoffs.

Lucian lifts his head.

He gives a dismissive wave, indicating that he should rise, and strides purposefully forward, laying both hands on his shoulders. He shakes his head. "Lucian, I had feared you dead," he says. "Since Darius arrived with his 'troops,' if you will, I have not had a chance to inquire as to your whereabouts." He shoots the other man a meaningful look. "Had he not kept me so occupied since he arrived here, I would have sent for you myself."

Darius smiles. "If you please, my lord, I had thought it more important at the time to settle things here first."

"What of the others?" asks Lucian.

Julian's expression turns grave. "Leave us," he says after a moment's pause, dismissing the assembly behind him.

They make haste to obey the order, quickly dispersing from the room.

Once the last of them disappears and the doors are closed, Julian turns back to Lucian. "Dead, mostly," he answers simply, "or with Wyndam."

Lucian stares after him in shock as the Elder turns and ascends the platform, stepping around the table to return to his seat. "How could this have happened?" he says to no one in particular.

"It was a coup," answers Julian, lowering himself into his chair. "It would appear that Wyndam has been whispering in the ears of some of the lower Council members for quite some time. And he's been gathering followers. They attacked at once; there was little time to prepare. Stefan was the last to fall, leaving me a means of escape." He shakes his head. "Such a loss."

"And what of Nadira?" asks Lucian.

"Fortunately, she was not with us at the time," he answers. "She decided rather suddenly to return to her place in New York. I have not yet been able to reach her."

"You know she would not betray us," Lucian insists.

"Of course," answers Julian, lifting a hand in a placating gesture. "In fact, part of me wishes that she _had_ been here. I feel the battle would have ended more in our favor."

Lucian allows a small smile at this. "Indeed."

"Still, our allies are spread thin at the moment," he continues. "We must be cautious. It is difficult to know who to trust."

"That brings us to another problem I'm afraid, my lord," says Darius. "You see, Lucian has not come alone."

Lucian mentally curses his friend as Julian's gaze lights on him and the sudden realization dawns on his face.

The Elder pierces him with his gaze. "Tell me you have not brought John Mitchell to this castle," he says, almost pleading. "Tell me you have not brought a young vampire with a questionable past to take part in Council business."

Lucian clenches his jaw. "My lord, I needed someone I could trust-"

"And he was your only option?" Julian snaps.

Lucian is silent.

Julian shakes his head. "Lucian," he begins, sounding strained, "your affection for that boy will be your downfall."

Still, he says nothing.

For a moment there is silence. The tension weighs heavily in the air.

"Bring him to me," says Julian.

Lucian's head snaps up. "My lord?"

"I wish to assess him for myself," he answers. "You have brought him here without invitation and without permission. You have forced my hand and I must now judge him for myself."

Lucian swallows hard. "He is… indisposed at the moment."

Julian raises his eyebrows. "'Indisposed?'"

"That is actually quite accurate, my lord," Darius interjects. "I sort of had a run in with him when they first arrived. Took him for one of Wyndam's spies."

Julian nods. "That would explain why the two of you reek of fresh blood," he says. He turns to Lucian. "Very well. You may tend to him. But the moment he is able to so much as stand on his own you are to bring him to me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord," he answers quietly.

"Good," says Julian. "Then you are dismissed."

* * *

**_I s2g this thing is turning into a full length novel and I didn't mean to…_**

**_So an update from Camp NaNoWriMo… Unfortunately, I was not as successful as I'd hoped to be. I didn't finish the draft like I wanted, BUT I did make a fair amount of progress. The next couple of chapters are practically finished. I just have a few more details to work out and need to flesh out some scenes a bit better. Hopefully now that I'm starting to get my personal shit together I'll be able to focus on this project a bit more consistently._**

**_So what'd you think? Do you hate me? I'm an evil sadist, I know it. (Or just a slut for H/C, you decide.) Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated. (I'd love to know if more than two people are still reading this tbh…)_**


	6. Failure

_**I know what I needed to bring back my motivation for this fic. I needed the **_**Dark Before Dawn_ album to drop... ;)_**

**Track 6: Failure by Breaking Benjamin**

* * *

As Mitchell slowly begins to regain consciousness, the first thing he is aware of is pain. Not as acutely as he had felt it before, fortunately, but a dull throbbing that seems to resonate through his entire body. Before he even opens his eyes, he realizes that he's lying in bed, though not his own. The mattress and pillows feel as if he's lying on a cloud and the sheets are too soft to be the cotton that he's used to. Maybe silk? He takes a deep breath which is immediately released in a groan, his fists clenching on the outside of the covers drawn up around his chest. He feels the mattress sink beside him and a hand on his arm.

He opens his eyes to find Lucian staring down at him, his worried expression melting into that of obvious relief as brown eyes meet blue. "Hey," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a bus," he answers hoarsely. "Which, going by Darius's reputation, I don't think is entirely inaccurate." He breaks into a lopsided grin in an effort to make light of the situation, but Lucian does not return the gesture, choosing instead to look away, his jaw clenched. Mitchell frowns. "How long was I out?"

"A few hours," Lucian answers. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't wake until morning." He pauses, his eyes downcast. "Mitchell-"

"Don't even start," he cuts in, giving him a pointed look. "I already know what you're gonna say. But I chose to come here. It was my idea to split up and it's my fault I didn't come back and find you like you said to when I found something. I don't need you feeling guilty about my mistakes."

Lucian shakes his head. "But it was my responsibility to-"

"Did you not hear what I said?" he interrupts, trying to sit up. "I'm not gonna sit here and let you- ow…" He drops back onto the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut as the movement jars his shoulder.

"Take it easy," Lucian admonishes softly, resting a hand on his arm. He eyes his shoulder with a frown. "You should let me take a look at that."

He opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it at the look he gets in response. He knows better than to argue with that look and so he obliges, pushing the covers down a little lower on his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut as Lucian slowly unwraps the bandages.

"The bleeding has stopped," he observes, "but the wound still hasn't closed."

Mitchell sighs inwardly. _Great._ He grits his teeth as Lucian begins to rewrap the bandages. As his shoulder begins to throb painfully, he closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. In and out. In and out. It doesn't help. The pressure leaves his shoulder. He feels a hand on his head.

"Can you sit up?" Lucian asks.

He eyes him suspiciously. "Why?"

"You need to feed," he answers simply, reaching for his arm. "Come on." He places a hand behind his back, ignoring his protests as he eases him into a sitting position. He then shifts around behind him, slipping an arm around his side.

Mitchell hisses as the movement jars his injured shoulder and takes a deep breath, leaning back against his chest.

Once he's settled, Lucian retrieves a small blade from his pocket and raises it to his forearm.

He grabs for his wrist. "Lucian," he tries, but his protests fall on deaf ears.

"You need blood and there's little to be had here," he answers, pressing the blade against his skin.

Mitchell sighs inwardly. He's too weak to argue and he knows he's right anyway. He only hesitates for a moment before sinking his fangs into the wound.

When he feels the older man begin to weaken he breaks away, breathing hard. "You never stop me soon enough," he admonishes, collapsing against him.

Lucian says nothing. He simply leans back against the headboard, hugging him tighter against his chest.

"Stubborn ass," Mitchell mutters as his eyes fall closed.

He presses a kiss to his temple, a small smile playing on his lips. "I know."

* * *

Mitchell follows Lucian through the long and winding corridors, deep into the depths of the old fortress. Sconces are lit along the way, casting strange shadows as they pass, which does little to settle his nerves. Neither does the line of tension he sees clearly in the set of the older man's shoulders as they make their way through the castle.

Ever since Lucian told him of the Elder's request he has been filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. While the older man had tried to pass it off as routine, he could sense his apprehension. He knows that no vampire his age has ever been given audience with the Elder, let alone summoned by name. You don't get the attention of the Elder unless you're at least old enough to gain a position on the Council- or you do something very wrong.

The deeper they go the colder it seems to get, and he finds himself sorely missing his gloves. He is dressed in black jeans- the nicest pair he managed to dig out of his duffle bag- a black button down shirt, and his leather boots. His hair is still a little damp from the shower, which isn't helping against the chill, and he's done his best to comb his unruly curls back out of his eyes.

It's been a full twenty-four hours since his run in with Darius, and though the wound in his shoulder is mostly closed now it still pains him. He knows he runs the risk of reopening it if he isn't careful, and he doesn't miss Lucian's sideways glances anytime his hand unconsciously travels to his shoulder. He tries to focus on keeping his hands at his sides.

As they approach a massive set of double doors at the end of the hall, Mitchell recognizes the Council seal set into the intricate carvings. The slow and steady beat of his heart begins to pick up the closer they get until he can almost hear it pounding in his ears.

Outside the doors, Lucian pauses and turns to face him, his mouth set in a grim line. He is dressed in black slacks, a navy blue button down shirt, and black tie. Mitchell had given him plenty of grief about the tie, which he then chose to offset by wearing his leather jacket over the ensemble; but even as he tugs at the black fabric in obvious discomfort, he finds that he doesn't have it in him to make light of the situation. Lucian must see something of the panic in his face because his expression softens and he takes a step closer, dropping both hands onto his shoulders.

"Take a breath. I can hear your heart beat from here," he says, allowing a small smile.

Mitchell draws a shaky breath.

"Do you remember everything I told you?"

He nods, jaw clenched.

"Good," he says. "Just keep your head down and follow my lead. I'll be in there the whole time, alright?"

Again, he nods.

"Hey," says Lucian, squeezing his good shoulder. "You're gonna be fine."

Mitchell takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. He gives a nod.

"You ready?" asks Lucian.

"Yeah," he answers, finding his voice again.

Lucian offers a small smile and reaches out a hand, patting his cheek. He releases him and turns to the door, allowing Mitchell a moment to take his designated place just behind and to his left. Then he takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and lifts a hand, knocking twice on the door.

The double doors swing open in unison and they begin their forward march, the entrance flanked by a pair of vampires that Mitchell suspects are not much older than he is. Based on what Lucian has told him, he infers them to be Darius's men. The entire floor is bare of furniture and appears to have recently been cleaned. He can detect the lingering scent of bleach and old blood. He swallows hard as the images that particular combination recalls to mind are enough to make him nauseous.

As their footsteps echo through the large space, Mitchell keeps his gaze low, focusing on keeping pace just behind Lucian as he was instructed. When they reach the center of the room, Lucian halts their progress. As he takes a short bow, Mitchell drops to one knee, eyes on the floor. He holds this stance as Lucian begins to speak.

"My lord," he begins, his voice rumbling through the space. "As requested, I wish to present John Mitchell. My charge."

For a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, there is silence; the only sound Mitchell is aware of being that of his own breathing. He holds is present position, not daring to so much as lift his head.

"Thank you, Lucian," says Julian, finally breaking the silence. "You may stand aside."

He hesitates for a moment before inclining his head. Then he turns and goes to stand beside Darius off to his right.

Julian rises slowly to his feet and descends the platform, taking long strides toward the center of the room.

Mitchell does not move as the Elder approaches, the power emanating from him unlike anything he has ever felt before to the point that he is grateful to already by kneeling. He does not believe he could keep his feet before such a presence.

The Elder comes to a stop little more than a foot in front of him and the room is silent. Out of compulsion he glances upward, but quickly returns his gaze to the floor, holding his breath. Just as the wave of power washing over him seems about to drown him he feels it begin to ebb away, making it a little easier to breathe again.

"You may rise," says Julian, though it is more of a command than an invitation.

Mitchell rises stiffly to his feet, his hands at his sides, but he keeps his gaze downward.

Julian begins to circle him like a shark, his expression a mask. As he passes behind him, Mitchell chances a quick glance at Lucian who gives an almost imperceptible nod. As Julian circles back around, he glances between the two as if sensing the exchange. Both lower their gazes to the floor.

"John Mitchell," drawls Julian. "Formerly of William Herrick, are you not?"

Mitchell flinches at the mention of his Sire and swallows hard to find his voice. "Yes, my lord," he answers a bit hoarsely.

"A bit of information that Lucian neglected to include when he made your introduction just now," says Julian, giving him a pointed look before returning his attention to Mitchell. "But then it is not unknown to me that he would rather claim you for himself."

"I cut ties with Herrick a long time ago," says Mitchell, finally meeting the Elder's gaze. "He means nothing to me."

"He made you, did he not?" says Julian mildly, folding his hands behind his back. "Surely that must count for something."

"Not to me," he shoots back, momentarily forgetting his position. "I'd sooner be dead than have stayed with him. He nearly saw to that himself. If Lucian hadn't-"

At a warning look from Lucian, he cuts himself off, feeling himself go pale as he remembers who he's speaking to. He bows his head, clenching his jaw.

Julian simply raises his eyebrows, surveying him with mild interest at the outburst. He spares a glance at Lucian who has his eyes closed. He returns his attention to Mitchell.

"Is it true that you killed William Herrick?" he asks.

When Mitchell hesitates, Julian reaches out a hand and cups his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "I want you to look me in the eye when you answer," he says.

Mitchell swallows hard, struggling to find his voice again. "Yes, my lord," he answers firmly.

For a moment, Julian is silent, boring into him with his gaze. He takes a step back, surveying him with renewed interest. "It would seem that there is much I have underestimated about you," he says. "And some things, I think, that have yet to be disclosed. There is more that I would have you tell me, however time grows short. I believe it will be easier for all of us if I see for myself."

"Julian-"

Lucian starts forward, but Darius catches his arm, shooting his friend a warning look.

Mitchell locks eyes with him for a moment, feeling a rising sense of panic at the older man's obvious distress.

"Lucian, if you proceed to make things difficult, then you shall be dismissed from the room," Julian says dangerously, pulling his attention off of Mitchell.

He clenches his jaw and steps back in line beside Darius, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Julian turns back to Mitchell who eyes him warily.

"Now, I am going to explain what's going to happen very simply," he begins. "I am going to read you; your thoughts, your memories. Your only job is to leave your mind open during this process. The more you resist, the more you try to shut me out, the more difficult it will be for you. I suggest you save yourself the headache. Is that understood?"

Mitchell stares back at him with a deep furrow in his brow, jaw clenched. He doesn't like the sound of that. At all. He spares a quick glance at Lucian, which does nothing to ease his concerns. It appears to be taking every ounce of effort for him to remain where he stands.

"Don't look at him, look at me," says Julian.

Mitchell complies.

"Is that understood?" he repeats.

He swallows hard. It seems he doesn't have a choice. He gives a short nod.

"Very good," says Julian. He pushes back his sleeves and raises both hands, beckoning him closer. "Step forward."

Reluctantly, Mitchell takes a step towards him. He can almost feel Lucian's gaze and it takes all his effort to keep his eyes forward.

Julian places his hands on either side of his face, the tips of his fingers resting at his temples.

He suppresses a shudder.

"Close your eyes," the Elder commands.

He takes a deep breath and obeys.

In an instant the world around him erupts into a hundred different sounds and images, swirling around him at dizzying speeds and giving him the feeling of falling though a vast space. The sensation threatens to drive him to his knees, but he is rooted to the spot by the hands that hold him in place. He can feel a pull, the hands beginning to claw through his mind, tearing through the images at an alarming rate. He finds himself reliving moments of his life faster than he can comprehend what is happening. Herrick on the battlefield, his first kill and snatches of later exploits under his Sire's influence. The flat in London, his first encounter with Lucian, that New Year's Eve in Vienna, the night he met George, Annie, he relives driving the stake through Herrick's heart. The images move faster, coming to a screeching halt inside the funeral parlor, Ivan at his side. He doesn't want to go any further. He pushes back against the force that is pulling these images from him and is met with pain, like hooks tearing into his mind.

_"I warned you against resisting,"_ Julian's voice echoes in his mind.

He's helpless again, bleeding outside the train car while Daisy and Cara massacre the inhabitants within. He can feel his own hunger threatening to take control. Lucian… He pushes back once more and the image skips. He's sitting next to Lia on the train.

_"Your fate has already been decided… There's a war coming, and it's going to affect all sides… You're going to kill the one who started it…"_

He fights against the hooks tearing through his mind until the pain nearly drives him to his knees. Suddenly, the images lurch forward. The pain in his shoulder flares again and he's leaning against Lucian. He tastes blood on his lips.

Abruptly, the presence in his mind rips free, lurching him back to the present until he finds himself kneeling on the marble floor, gasping for breath. He lifts his head to find Julian standing with his hands out in front of him as if he's been burned, but his attention is no longer on Mitchell.

"Darius!" he bellows, "Call Malcolm in here. Have him escort our 'guest' from the room. I would like to have a word with Lucian."

"Yes, my lord," answers Darius, quickly heading for the door.

Once he has left the room, Lucian takes a step towards Mitchell.

"You stay exactly where you are," says Julian dangerously.

With what appears to take every ounce of effort, he takes a step back, fists clenched at his sides.

Mitchell's gaze is fixed on Lucian from where he still kneels on the floor, trying to get some kind of read on the situation from the older man, but he will not meet his gaze. And he is too fearful of the consequences to even think of calling out to him.

He feels a hand on his arm and turns to look up at a face that seems familiar, but he struggles to place it. He assumes this must be Malcolm.

"Take him to the antechamber off the south wing," Julian orders. "He is to remain there until someone comes to fetch him."

"Yes, my lord," answers Malcolm, giving a low bow. He helps Mitchell to his feet and begins pulling him toward the door, seemingly in a hurry to flee the room.

Mitchell risks one more look back at Lucian before they cross the threshold and nearly halts their forward progress as he finally catches the older man's eye. He has never seen him look so desperate.

"Don't push it," Malcolm hisses in his ear. "Come on." And he pulls him from the room.

* * *

Lucian continues to stare at the door after the two have disappeared, until Julian's voice returns his attention to the situation at hand.

"Darius, you may stay," he says as the other man moves toward the door.

He comes to a halt and gives a nod, folding his hands behind him.

"Now then," says Julian, returning his attention to Lucian. "Exactly how long have you been allowing him to feed from you?"

Darius snaps his attention to Lucian, staring at him in wide eyed disbelief.

Lucian swallows hard, his gaze fixed on the floor. "When the situation has called for it-"

_"How long?"_

He clenches his jaw, refusing to meet the Elder's gaze. "Since I took him in," he answers. "But only in times of great need-"

"And did you ever once think of the consequences your actions might bring?" Julian shoots back. "Putting that kind of power in the hands of one as reckless and irresponsible as John Mitchell-"

"I only ever did it under extreme circumstances," Lucian cuts in, the anger rising in his voice. "In the beginning when I couldn't get him to stabilize from the withdrawal and in later situations in which his life was in danger."

"His life should not have been allowed to continue beyond the moment you first encountered him!" growls Julian. "You were meant to dispose of him like any other Rogue. What stayed your hand that day has vexed me for decades, but I chose to abide it because I trusted your judgment. It appears that I was mistaken. Since you put him in charge in Bristol, the entire clan has been wiped out and we have all been put at risk of exposure due to the little incident in the Box Tunnel. An incident which both of you failed to prevent."

Lucian stares back at him with a fire in his gaze, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. Before he can respond, Darius steps forward, cutting him off with a restraining hand on his arm.

"My lord-"

"Do not leap to his defense, Darius!" the Elder commands. "I will not stand for any further insubordination tonight."

He inclines his head and steps back in line, sparing Lucian a sideways glance, a clear warning in the look.

Julian looks thoughtful. "I have a job for you," he says. "Have your people reach out to your contacts in London. I want a full status report on the Box Tunnel investigation. I need to know how much damage control remains to be done."

Darius gives a short bow. "Yes, my lord," he says, and with one last sideways glance at Lucian, he turns on his heel and exits the room.

"Now then," drawls Julian, returning his attention to Lucian. "That brings us to the situation at hand. It is quite clear to me that I may not rely upon you as I once did."

Lucian's expression turns somber. "My lord-"

"Be silent!"

He bows his head.

"You have continuously disobeyed orders of late," he continues. "Now, I have been lenient, but you have taken this too far. You are not looking out for our best interests, only your own, and I must consider what is best for us all."

Lucian stands rooted to the spot, his head bowed as he awaits the Elder's judgment. The seconds seem to stretch into eternity.

"You will return to Wales with Mitchell at first light and await further orders," says Julian. "Darius and I will attend to matters here. Our list of allies grows thin and so I will have need of you later. But under no circumstances are you to involve John Mitchell further in Council business. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my lord," he responds, struggling to find his voice.

"Good," says Julian. "Then you are dismissed."

He gives a low bow, lingering a bit longer than is necessary before turning on his heel and heading towards the door.

"Oh, and Lucian," says the Elder, stopping him in his tracks. "John Mitchell will see the light of another day for the simple fact that I choose to allow it. Disappoint me again and you may find that my mood on the subject has changed. You'll do well to remember that."

Lucian stares back at him, feeling a sudden chill at the coldness in his gaze. He swallows hard. "Yes, my lord."

* * *

Mitchell is led through a maze of passageways until he no longer has any hope of retracing his steps to where he came from. After what feels like hours, they finally come to what appears to be a small sitting room off the main hallway and he allows himself to be guided to a chair for the simple fact that he doubts the integrity of his own legs at the moment. He closes his eyes and sinks into the cushions, even the dim light in the room being too much to bear at present. He feels like his head's going to explode.

Before he even realizes he's gone, Malcolm returns with a glass in his hand and nudges his arm. Mitchell cracks open an eye and looks at it suspiciously.

"It's just water," says Malcolm, extending it to him. "Here."

Mitchell accepts the glass and inspects it further, finding his companion to be telling the truth. He drains it quickly. "Thank you," he says.

Malcolm gives a nod.

He presses the empty glass to his forehead and closes his eyes, the coolness of it soothing against his skin. His headache has been reduced from agony to painful throbbing. He heaves a sigh.

"You resisted, didn't you?" asks Malcolm. He shakes his head. "You shouldn't have done that. That's how you get a headache."

Mitchell stares at him. "How did you-?"

"I've been through it a couple times," he answers. "Before I started working for Darius and then after he brought me here. It's how the Old Ones gage whether or not they can trust you. That way you can't lie. They just see everything and make their judgment. I figured you would've known that, having been in the company of one of the Old Ones."

Mitchell shakes his head. "No, Lucian's never done that."

Malcolm raises his eyebrows. "You're joking."

"I'm pretty sure I'd remember if he had," he answers. "I didn't even know that was possible."

He leans forward in his chair, studying him curiously. "So what's your story with Lucian then anyway?" he asks. "I know he's not your Sire. And you don't work for him."

"No, I don't work for him," says Mitchell. "He's…" he tries to think of how best to answer this, "a friend."

"How old are you?" asks Malcolm.

"A hundred and seventeen," he answers.

Malcolm shakes his head in disbelief. "I've never heard of anyone your age being 'friends' with one of the Old Ones," he says.

"Lucian's not like a lot of the Old Ones," he answers.

Malcolm nods. "So, why did you resist the Elder?" he asks. "I wouldn't have even thought to try."

"There were things I didn't want him to see," he says simply. "Things I wouldn't want anyone to see."

"Badly enough to risk the wrath of the Elder?" asks Malcolm.

He nods. "Yeah."

Malcolm shakes his head. "You know, you're either really ballsy or completely suicidal," he says.

"Bullheaded?" he offers.

He breaks into a grin. "Exactly," he says. "You remind me of somebody else I know."

He doesn't have a chance to elaborate as Darius appears in the doorway, and Mitchell has to catch himself to keep from flinching away from his looming presence.

"Malcolm, I've got another job for you," he says, barely acknowledging Mitchell's presence. "Find Isaak and Liam and meet me in the study, will you?"

"Yes sir," he answers, already on his feet. He gives Mitchell a parting nod before disappearing into the hall.

As the sound of his footsteps grows faint, a heavy silence settles on the room. Mitchell feels as if he's awaiting a sentence.

"You know," says Darius, finally giving him his attention, "Lucian is my oldest friend. We've been comrades since James I was on the throne. Do you know how long that is?"

He shakes his head. "I'm Irish," he smirks. "I've never really cared to follow the English monarchy."

"Three hundred and eighty five years," he drawls, folding his arms across his chest as he regards him coldly. "And he's always been the best of us. In fact, there are plenty that would've liked to see him on the Council, myself included. Those who would follow him into Hell itself."

"You think I wouldn't?" says Mitchell through gritted teeth.

"I don't know," Darius answers. "What have you ever done but hold him back; distract him from his cause? Or take from him for your own selfish ends?"

Any response he could form catches in his throat. Instead he clenches his jaw and simply stares back at him, a deep furrow forming in his brow.

Darius leans in closer, speaking low in his ear. "You've caused a lot of trouble for him, you know," he says. "If you had any shred of decency in you, you would walk away from here. Cut all ties. He'd be better off."

Mitchell drops his gaze to the floor and says nothing. Suddenly his chest feels tight.

Darius straightens. "I suggest you don't even wait until morning," he says, moving towards the door.

A moment later, he hears the approach of footsteps and Lucian appears in the doorway, coming up short when he finds Darius in his path.

"Darius," he says, "I thought you had business to attend to."

"I do," he answers. "I came to fetch Malcolm."

"I just passed him in the hall," says Lucian, glancing between Darius and Mitchell suspiciously.

"Yes, I sent him on ahead," answers Darius. "If you'll excuse me." He then slips past and disappears into the hall, leaving Lucian staring at his back.

Lucian observes his progress for a moment before closing the door behind him and stepping further into the room.

Mitchell doesn't lift his head. "I should never have come here," he says.

Lucian stops dead in his tracks. For a moment, he says nothing.

As the silence stretches on, the tightness grows in Mitchell's chest until it takes conscious effort to take a breath. He keeps his gaze on the floor.

"I'm sorry, John," Lucian says softly, prompting the younger man to lift his head. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this."

He shakes his head furiously. "That's not what I meant," he says, rising to his feet so fast that he has to grip the back of the chair as the sudden movement makes him dizzy. He takes a breath to steady himself. "I've done nothing but cause trouble for you since we left. You brought me along to be a help, not a burden-"

"Mitchell-" Lucian takes a step towards him, but he steps back out of reach, shaking his head.

"You need to stop making excuses for me," he says. "All I've ever done is hold you back. You'd be better off without me. I'm just-"

"Mitchell, stop," says Lucian, gripping him by the arms, having finally managed to corner him by backing him into the table in the middle of the room. "Where is this coming from?"

"You know that it's true," Mitchell responds, bracing his arms against his chest.

"No it's not," Lucian insists. He pauses as if struck by a sudden thought, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Did Darius say something to you?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. Instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, not meeting his gaze.

Lucian gives him a pointed look. When the younger man offers no further response he heaves an exasperated sigh. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?" he says.

"Look, it doesn't matter, okay?" answers Mitchell, twisting his fingers into the fabric of his shirt until he can't distinguish whether he's trying to pull him closer or push him away. "It doesn't make it any less true. You're in trouble with the Elder and it's my fault-"

"Mitchell, _stop_," he cuts in. "That's enough. I'm not in trouble with the Elder and I have _never_ considered you a burden. How many times must I tell you this?"

Mitchell closes his eyes and shakes his head, finding that words have failed him.

Lucian sighs inwardly. "Come here," he says, pulling at his arms.

He is met with some resistance, but eventually Mitchell gives in, stepping into the embrace and burying his face in his shoulder.

"Don't think on it anymore, do you understand?" says Lucian, stroking his hair.

He nods against his shoulder, hugging him tighter.

"Anyway, we're leaving tomorrow," says Lucian.

He lifts his head. "What?" he says, stepping out of the embrace. "What are you talking about? I thought-"

"I had a long discussion with Julian," says Lucian. "There's no point in us staying. Wyndam is long gone and Darius and his men have things handled here."

Mitchell stares at him. "'Have things handled?' Lucian, he attacked _the Council_-"

"Which is all the more reason for us to return," he answers. "Whatever his next play is, it won't be carried out here. And you'd rather be near the others when he does, wouldn't you?"

Mitchell considers this. "You're right," he sighs. "I'd rather we didn't leave them on their own. After Bristol there's no telling what he'll do."

"Good," says Lucian, squeezing his good shoulder. "Now why don't you get some sleep. We'll leave first thing in the morning, alright?"

He nods absently. "Okay," he says. And while he doesn't want to admit it; if he's completely honest with himself, he feels relief at the thought of putting some distance between himself and this gloomy old castle- along with its inhabitants.

* * *

**_I really need to stop with these super late postings, but I knew if I didn't finish this before bed it wasn't going to happen. Given my shitty work schedule and the fact that this job wears me out so badly, I knew I wouldn't be able to get it done on a work day. So here I am, finishing my edits at 3AM._**

**_So what did you think? The plot thickens, as you can see. This chapter was really difficult for some reason and I feel like I've been staring at it for way too long, so I hope it came out okay. I'm planning (hoping) to post the next chapter by next week if I can keep this stride going. It's mostly written, so I'm fairly optimistic._**

**_Anyway, tomorrow's my Monday, so please leave reviews so I have something to smile about during my shift! :P_**

**_Thanks for reading._**


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